CKINAC 
and  LAKE 

STORIES 


Hartwell 
afhetwood 


[Page  222 


THAT    WAS   THE    MOMENT   OF    LIFE  " 


MACKINAC    AND 
LAKE    STORIES 

By 
MARY  HARTWELL  CATHERWOOD 

WITH  ILL  USTRA  TION8 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 
NEW    YORK    AND    LONDON 


Copyright,  1899,  by  HAEPEB  &  BBOTHEBB. 


All  right*  rtitrved. 


^ 


TO 

ZDcac  Daughter 
HAZEL 

THE  COMPANION  OF  ALL  MY  JOURNEYS 


39G671 


CONTENTS 


PAGK 

MARIANSON 1 

THE  BLACK  FEATHER 20 

THE  COBBLER  IN  THE  DEVIL'S  KITCHEN 34 

THE  SKELETON  ON  ROUND  ISLAND 54 

THE  PENITENT  OF  CROSS  VILLAGE 69 

THE  KING  OF  BEAVER 89 

BEAVER  LIGHTS 118 

A  BRITISH  ISLANDER 137 

THE  CURSED  PATOIS 151 

THE  MOTHERS  OF  HONORE 170 

THE  BLUE  MAN 187 

THE  INDIAN  ON  THE  TRAIL 202 


ILLUSTKATIONS 


"THAT  WAS  THE  MOMENT  OP  LIFE" Frontispiece 

"SHE  LAY  BREATHING  LIKE  AN  INFANT"    .      .      .  Facing  p.       4 

THE  TRAIN-AU-GALISE "  56 

"  '  I  THINK    THE    CAMP    GO    AROUND    AND    AROUND 

ME'" "  60 

'"I  HAVE  ALWAYS  PRAYED  THIS  PRAYER  ALONE  '"  "  102 

"  IT'S  BROTHER  STRANG  SERENADING  "    ....  "  104 

"  'YOU  WILL  GIVE  YOURSELF  TO  ME  NOW?'".     .  "  110 

"'LET  ME  LOOSE!'  STRUGGLED  EMELINE "  .     .    .  "  114 
I   WAS   STARTLED    TO    SEE    HER   RUSH  AT  THE 

CAPTAIN •'.'•    .      ; "  140 

THE  QUARTERS ••  144 

"HE  APPEARED  AT  THE  DOOB,  AND  IT  WAS  HON- 

ORE"  '«  186 


MARIANSON 

WHEN  the  British  landed  on  the  west  side 
of  Mackinac  Island  at  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning  of  July  17, 1812,  Canadians 
were  ordered  to  transport  the  cannon.     They  had 
only  a  pair  of  six-pounders,  but  these  had  to  be 
dragged  across  the  long  alluvial  stretch  to  heights 
which  would  command  the  fortress,  and  sand,  rock, 
bushes,  trees,  and  fallen  logs  made  it  a  dreadful 
portage.    Yoyageurs,  however,  were  men  to  accom 
plish  what  regulars  and  Indians  shirked. 

All  but  one  of  the  hundred  and  sixty  Canadians 
hauled  with  a  good  will  on  the  cannon  ropes.  The 
dawn  was  glimmering.  Paradise  hid  in  the  un 
tamed  island,  breathing  dew  and  spice.  The  spell 
worked  instantly  upon  that  one  young  voyageur 
whose  mind  was  set  against  the  secret  attack.  All 
night  his  rage  had  been  swelling.  He  despised  the 
British  regulars — forty-two  lords  of  them  only  be 
ing  in  this  expedition — as  they  in  turn  despised  his 
class.  They  were  his  conquerors.  He  had  no  de 
sire  to  be  used  as  means  of  pushing  their  conquest 
further.  These  islanders  he  knew  to  be  of  his  own 
race,  perhaps  crossed  with  Chippewa  blood. 
A  1 


MARIANSON 

Seven  hundred  Indians,  painted  and  horned  for 
war,  skulked  along  as  allies  in  the  dim  morning  twi 
light.  He  thought  of  sleeping  children  roused  by 
tomahawk  and  scalping-knife  in  case  the  surprised 
fort  did  not  immediately  surrender.  Even  thenj 
how  were  a  few  hundred  white  men  to  restrain 
nearly  a  thousand  savages  ? 

The  young  Canadian,  as  a  rush  was  made  with 
the  ropes,  stumbled  over  a  log  and  dropped  behind 
a  bush.  His  nearest  companions  scarcely  noticed 
the  desertion  in  their  strain,  but  the  officer  in 
stantly  detailed  an  Indian. 

"  One  of  you  Sioux  bring  that  fellow  back  or 
bring  his  scalp." 

A  Sioux  stretched  forward  and  leaped  eagerly 
into  the  woods.  All  the  boy's  years  of  wilderness 
training  were  concentrated  on  an  escape.  The 
English  officer  meant  to  make  him  a  lesson  to  the 
other  voyageurs.  And  he  smiled  as  he  thought  of 
the  race  he  could  give  the  Sioux.  All  his  arms  ex 
cept  his  knife  were  left  behind  the  bush  ;  for  fleet- 
ness  was  to  count  in  this  venture.  The  game  of 
life  or  death  was  a  pretty  one,  to  be  enjoyed  as  he 
shot  from  tree  to  tree,  or  like  a  noiseless-hoofed 
deer  made  a  long  stretch  of  covert.  He  was  alive 
through  every  blood  drop.  The  dewy  glory  of 
dawn  had  never  seemed  so  great.  Cool  as  the 
Sioux  whom  he  dodged,  his  woodsman's  eye  gath 
ered  all  aspects  of  the  strange  forest.  A  detached 
rock,  tall  as  a  tree,  raised  its  colossal  altar,  surpris 
ing  the  eye  like  a  single  remaining  temple  pillar. 


MARIANSON 

Old  logs,  scaled  as  in  a  coat  of  mail,  testified  to  the 
humidity  of  this  lush  place.  The  boy  trod  on 
sweet  white  violets  smelling  of  incense. 

The  wooded  deeps  unfolded  in  thinning  dusk 
and  revealed  a  line  of  high  verdant  cliffs  walling 
his  course.  He  dashed  through  hollows  where 
millions  of  ferns  bathed  him  to  the  knees.  As 
daylight  grew  —  though  it  never  was  quite  day 
light  there — so  did  his  danger.  He  expected  to 
hear  the  humming  of  an  arrow,  and  perhaps  to 
feel  a  shock  and  sting  and  cleaving  of  the  bolt, 
and  turned  in  recklessly  to  climb  for  the  uplands, 
where  after  miles  of  jutting  spurs  the  ridge  stooped 
and  pushed  out  in  front  of  itself  a  round-topped 
rock.  As  the  Canadian  passed  this  rock  a  yellow 
flare  like  candle-light  came  through  a  crack  at  its 
base. 

He  dropped  on  all-fours.  The  Indian  was  not  in 
sight.  He  squirmed  within  a  low  battlement  of 
serrated  stone  guarding  the  crack,  and  let  himself 
down  into  what  appeared  to  be  the  mouth  of  a  cave. 
The  opening  was  so  low  as  to  be  invisible  just  out 
side  the  serrated  breastwork.  He  found  himself 
in  a  room  of  rock,  irregularly  hollow  above,  with 
a  candle  burning  on  the  stone  floor.  As  he  sat  up 
right  and  stretched  forth  a  hand  to  pinch  off  the 
flame,  the  image  of  a  sleeping  woman  was  printed 
on  his  eyeballs  so  that  he  saw  every  careless  ring 
of  fair  hair  around  her  head  and  every  curve  of 
her  body  for  hours  afterwards  in  the  dusk. 

His  first  thought  was  to  place  himself  where  his 
3 


MARIANSON 

person  would  intercept  any  attack  at  the  mouth  of 
the  cave.  Knife  in  hand,  he  waited  for  a  horned, 
glittering-eyed  face  to  stoop  or  an  arrow  or  hatchet 
to  glance  under  that  low  rim,  the  horizon  of  his 
darkness.  His  chagrin  at  having  taken  to  a  trap 
and  drawn  danger  on  a  woman  was  poignant ;  the 
candle  had  caught  him  like  a  moth,  and  a  Sioux 
would  keenly  follow.  Still,  no  lightest  step  be 
trayed  the  Sioux's  knowledge  of  his  whereabouts. 
A  long  time  passed  before  he  relaxed  to  an  easy 
posture  and  turned  to  the  interior  of  the  cave. 

The  drip  of  a  veiled  water-vein  at  the  rear  made 
him  conscious  of  thirst,  but  the  sleeping  woman 
was  in  the  way  of  his  creeping  to  take  a  drink. 
Wrapped  in  a  fur  robe,  she  lay  breathing  like  an 
infant,  white-skinned,  full-throated,  and  vigorous, 
a  woman  older  than  himself.  The  consequences  of 
her  waking  did  not  threaten  him  as  perilous.  With 
out  reasoning,  he  was  convinced- that  a  woman 
who  lay  down  to  sleep  beside  a  burning  candle  in 
this  wild  place  would  make  no  outcry  when  she 
awoke  and  found  the  light  had  drawn  instead  of 
kept  away  possible  cave -inhabitants.  Day  grew 
beyond  the  low  sill  and  thinned  obscurity  around 
him,  showing  the  swerve  of  the  roof  to  a  sloping 
shelf.  Perspiration  cooled  upon  him  and  he  shiv 
ered.  A  fire  and  a  breakfast  would  have  been 
good  things,  which  he  had  often  enjoyed  in  danger. 
Bowing  all  night,  and  landing  cannon  at  the  end 
of  it,  and  running  a  league  or  more  for  life,  ex 
hausted  a  man. 

4 


MARIANSON 

The  woman  stirred,  and  the  young  voyageur 
thought  of  dropping  his  knife  back  into  its  sheath. 
At  the  slight  click  she  sat  up,  drawing  in  her  breath. 

He  whispered  :  "  Do  not  be  afraid.  I  have  not 
come  in  here  to  hurt  you." 

She  was  staring  at  him,  probably  taking  him  for 
some  monster  of  the  dark. 

"  Have  you  anything  here  to  eat  ?" 

The  woman  resumed  her  suspended  breath,  and 
answered  in  the  same  guarded  way,  and  in  French 
like  his:  "  Yes.  I  come  to  this  part  of  the  island 
so  often  that  I  have  put  bread  and  meat  and  candles 
in  the  cave.  How  did  you  find  it?  No  one  but 
myself  knew  about  it." 

"  I  saw  the  candle-light." 

"  The  candle  was  to  keep  off  evil  spirits.  It  has 
been  blown  out.  Where  did  you  come  from  ?" 

"From  St.  Joseph  Island  last  night  with  the 
English.  They  have  taken  the  island  by  surprise." 

She  unexpectedly  laughed  in  a  repressed  gurgle, 
as  a  faun  or  other  woods  creature  might  have 
laughed  at  the  predicaments  of  men. 

"  I  am  thinking  of  the  stupid  American  soldiers 
—to  lie  asleep  and  let  the  British  creep  in  upon 
them.  But  have  you  seen  my  cow?  I  searched 
everywhere,  until  the  moon  went  down  and  I  was 
tired  to  death,  for  my  cow." 

"  No,  I  saw  no  cow.     I  had  the  Sioux  to  watch." 

"What  Sioux?" 

"  The  Indian  our  commandant  sent  after  me. 
Speak  low.  He  may  be  listening  outside." 

5 


MARIANSON 

They  themselves  listened. 

"  If  Indians  have  come  on  the  island  they  will 
kill  all  the  cattle." 

"  There  are  the  women  and  children  and  men — 
even  poor  voyageurs — for  them  to  kill  first." 

She  gasped,  "Is  it  war?" 

"  Yes,  it  is  war." 

"  I  never  have  seen  war.  Why  did  you  come 
here?" 

"I  did  not  want  to,  mademoiselle,  and  I  de 
serted.  That  is  why  the  Indian  was  sent  after  me." 

"  Do  not  call  me  mademoiselle.  I  am  Marianson 
Bruelle,  the  widow  of  Andre  Chenier.  Our  houses 
will  be  burned,  and  our  gardens  trampled,  and  our 
boats  stolen." 

"  Not  if  the  fort  surrenders." 

Again  they  barkened  to  the  outside  world  in 
suspense.  The  deserter  had  expected  to  hear  can 
non  before  sunlight  so  slowly  crept  under  the  cave's 
lip.  It  was  as  if  they  sat  within  a  colossal  skull, 
broad  between  the  ears  but  narrowing  towards  the 
top,  with  light  coming  through  the  parted  mouth. 
Accustomed  to  the  soft  twilight,  the  two  could  see 
each  other,  and  the  woman  covertly  put  her  dress 
in  order  while  she  talked. 

More  than  fearlessness,  even  a  kind  of  maternal 
passion,  moved  her.  She  searched  in  the  back  of 
the  cave  and  handed  her  strange  guest  food,  and 
gathered  him  a  birch  cup  of  water  from  the  drip 
ping  rock.  The  touch  of  his  fingers  sent  a  new 
vital  thrill  through  her.  Two  may  talk  together 

6 


MARIANSON 

under  the  same  roof  for  many  years,  yet  never 
really  meet;  and  two  others  at  first  speech  are  old 
friends.  She  did  not  know  this  young  voyageur, 
"yet  she  began  to  claim  him. 

He  was  so  tired  that  the  tan  of  his  cheek  turned 
leaden  in  the  cave  gloom.  She  rose  from  her  bear 
skin  and  spread  it  for  him,  when  he  finished  eating. 

"  You  cannot  go  out  now,"  he  whispered,  when 
he  saw  her  intention.  "  The  Sioux  is  somewhere 
in  the  woods  watching  for  me.  The  Indians  came 
on  this  island  for  scalps.  You  will  not  be  safe, 
even  in  the  fort,  until  the  fight  is  over,  or  until 
night  comes  again." 

Marianson,  standing  convinced  by  what  he  said, 
was  unable  to  take  her  eyes  off  him.  Mass  seemed 
always  irksome  to  her  in  spite  of  the  frequent 
changes  of  posture  and  her  conviction  that  it  was 
good  for  her  soul.  She  was  at  her  happiest  plung 
ing  through  woods  or  panting  up  cliffs  which 
squaws  dared  not  scale.  Yet  enforced  hiding  with 
a  stranger  all  day  in  the  cave  was  assented  to  by 
this  active  sylvan  creature.  She  had  not  a  word 
to  say  against  it,  and  the  danger  of  going  out  was 
her  last  thought.  The  cavern's  mouth  was  a  very 
awkward  opening  to  crawl  through,  especially  if 
an  Indian  should  catch  one  in  the  act.  There  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  sit  down  and  wait. 

A  sigh  of  pleasure,  as  at  inhaling  the  spirit  of  a 
flower,  escaped  her  lips.  This  lad,  whose  presence 
she  knew  she  would  feel  without  seeing  if  he  came 
into  church  behind  her,  innocent  of  the  spell  he 


MARIANSON 

was  casting,  still  sat  guarding  the  entrance,  though 
the  droop  of  utter  weariness  relaxed  every  posture. 
Marianson  bade  him  lie  down  on  the  fur  robe,  and 
imperiously  arranged  her  lap  to  hold  his  head. 

"  I  am  maman  to  you.  I  say  to  you  sleep,  and 
you  shall  sleep." 

The  appealing  and  thankful  eyes  of  the  boy 
were  closed  almost  as  soon  as  he  crept  upon  the 
robe  and  his  head  sunk  in  its  comfortable  pillow. 
Marianson  braced  her  back  against  the  wall  and 
dropped  her  hands  at  her  sides.  Occasionally  she 
glanced  at  the  low  rim  of  light.  ~No  Indian  could 
enter  without  lying  flat.  She  had  little  dread  of 
the  Sioux. 

Every  globule  which  fell  in  darkness  from  the 
rock  recorded,  like  the  sand  grain  of  an  hour-glass, 
some  change  in  Marianson. 

"  I  not  care  for  anybody,  me,"  had  been  her 
boast  when  she  tantalized  soldiers  on  the  village 
street.  Her  gurgle  of  laughter,  and  the  hair  blow 
ing  on  her  temples  from  under  the  blanket  she 
drew  around  her  face,  worked  havoc  in  Mackinac. 
To  her  men  were  merely  useful  objects,  like  cows, 
or  houses,  or  gardens,  or  boats.  She  hugged  the 
social  liberty  of  a  woman  who  had  safely  passed 
through  matrimony  and  widowhood.  Married  to 
old  Andre  Chenier  by  her  parents,  that  he  might 
guard  her  after  their  death,  she  loathed  the  thought 
of  another  wearisome  tie,  and  called  it  veneration 
of  his  departed  spirit.  He  left  her  a  house,  a  cow, 
and  a  boat.  Accustomed  to  work  for  him,  she 

8 


MARIANSON 

found  it  much  easier  to  work  for  herself  when  he 
was  gone,  and  resented  having  young  men  hang 
around  desiring  to  settle  in  her  house.  She  laughed 
at  every  proposal  a  father  or  mother  made  her. 
No  family  on  the  island  could  get  her,  and  all 
united  in  pointing  her  out  as  a  bad  pattern  for 
young  women. 

A  bloom  like  the  rose  flushing  of  early  maiden 
hood  came  over  Marianson  with  her  freedom.  Iso 
lated  and  daring  and  passionless,  she  had  no  con 
ception  of  the  scandal  she  caused  in  the  minds  of 
those  who  carried  the  burdens  of  the  community, 
but  lived  like  a  bird  of  the  air.  Wives  who  bore 
children  and  kept  the  pot  boiling  found  it  hard  to 
see  her  tiptoeing  over  cares  which  swallowed  them. 
She  did  not  realize  that  maids  desired  to  marry  and 
she  took  their  lovers  from  them. 

But  knowledge  grew  in  her  as  she  sat  holding  the 
stranger's  head  in  her  lap,  though  it  was  not  a  day 
on  which  to  trouble  one's  self  with  knowledge. 
There  was  only  the  forest's  voice  outside,  that 
ceaseless  majestic  hymn  of  the  trees,  accompanied 
by  the  shore  ripple,  which  was  such  a  little  way 
off.  Languors  like  the  sweet  languors  of  spring 
came  over  her.  She  was  happier  than  she  had  ever 
been  before  in  her  life. 

"  It  is  delicious,"  she  thought.  "  I  have  been  in 
the  cave  many  times,  but  it  will  never  be  like  this 
again." 

And  it  was  a  strange  joy  to  find  the  touch  of  a 
human  being  something  to  delight  in.  There  was 

9 


MARIANSON 

sweet  wickedness  in  it ;  penance  might  have  to  fol 
low.  What  would  the  cure  say  if  he  saw  her  ?  To 
amuse  one's  self  with  soldiers  and  islanders  was 
one  thing ;  to  sit  tranced  all  day  in  a  cave  with  a 
stranger  must  be  another. 

There  was  a  rough  innocence  in  his  relaxed  body 
—beautiful  as  the  virgin  softness  of  a  girl.  Under 
the  spell  of  his  unconscious  domination,  she  did 
not  care  about  his  past.  Her  own  past  was  noth 
ing.  She  had  arrived  in  the  present.  Time  stood 
still.  His  face  was  turned  towards  her,  and  she 
studied  all  its  curves,  yet  knew  if  he  had  other 
features  he  would  still  be  the  one  person  in  the 
world  who  could  so  draw  her.  What  was  the 
power?  Had  women  elsewhere  felt  it?  At  that 
thought  she  had  a  pang  of  anguish  and  rage  alto 
gether  new  to  her.  Marianson  was  tender  even 
in  her  amusements;  her  benevolence  extended  to 
dumb  cattle ;  but  in  the  hidden  darkness  of  her 
consciousness  she  found  herself  choosing  the  Sioux 
for  him,  rather  than  a  woman. 

Once  he  half  raised  his  head,  but  again  let  it 
sink  to  its  rest.  Marianson  grew  faint ;  and  as 
the  light  waned  at  the  cave  mouth  she  remem 
bered  she  had  not  eaten  anything  that  day.  The 
fast  made  her  seem  fit  to  say  prayers,  and  she 
said  all  she  knew  over  his  head,  like  a  mother 
brooding. 

He  startled  her  by  sitting  up,  without  warning, 
fully  roused  and  alert. 

"  What  time  is  it  ?"  inquired  the  boy. 
10 


MARIANSON 

"  Look  at  the  door.  The  sun  has  long  been  be 
hind  the  trees." 

"  Have  I  slept  all  day  ?" 

"  Perhaps." 

"  And  have  you  heard  no  sound  of  battle  ?" 

"It  has  been  still  as  the  village  street  during 
mass." 

"  What,  then,  have  they  done,  those  English  ? 
They  must  have  taken  the  fort  without  firing  a 
gun.  And  the  Sioux — you  have  not  seen  him  ?" 

"Nothing  has  passed  the  cave  door,  not  even  a 
chipmunk." 

He  stretched  his  arms  upward  into  the  hollow, 
standing  tall  and  well  made,  his  buckskin  shirt 
turned  back  from  his  neck. 

"  I  am  again  hungry." 

"  I  also,"  said  Marianson.  "  I  have  not  eaten 
anything  to-day." 

Her  companion  dropped  on  his  knees  before  her 
and  took  out  of  her  hands  the  food  she  had  ready. 
His  face  expressed  shame  and  compunction  as  he 
fed  her  himself,  offering  bites  to  her  mouth  with 
gentle  persistence.  She  laughed  the  laugh  peculiar 
to  herself,  and  pushed  his  hand  back  to  his  own  lips. 
So  they  ate  together,  and  afterwards  drank  from 
the  same  cup.  Marianson  showed  him  where  the 
drops  came  down,  and  he  gathered  them,  smiling  at 
her  from  the  depths  of  the  cave.  They  heard  the 
evening  cawing  of  crows,  and  the  waters  rushing 
with  a  wilder  wash  on  the  beach. 

"  I  will  bring  more  bread  and  meat  when  I  come 
11 


MARIANSON 

back,"  promised  Marianson — "  unless  the  English 
have  burned  the  house." 

"  No.  When  it  is  dark  I  will  leave  the  cave  my 
self,"  said  the  voyageur.  "  Is  there  any  boat  near 
by  that  I  can  take  to  escape  in  from  the  island  ?" 

"  There  is  my  boat.     But  it  is  at  the  post." 

"  How  far  are  we  from  the  post  ?" 

"  It  is  not  so  far  if  one  might  cross  the  island  ; 
but  to  go  by  the  west  shore,  which  would  be  safest, 
perhaps,  in  time  of  war,  that  is  the  greater  part  of 
the  island's  girth." 

They  drew  near  together  as  they  murmured,  and 
at  intervals  he  held  the  cup  to  her  lips,  making  up 
for  his  forgetfulness  when  benumbed  with  sleep. 

"  One  has  but  to  follow  the  shore,  however,"  said 
the  boy.  "  And  where  can  I  find  the  boat  ?" 

"  You  cannot  find  it  at  all." 

"  But,"  he  added,  with  sudden  recollection,  "  I 
could  never  return  it  again." 

Marianson  saw  on  the  cave's  rough  wall  a  vision 
of  her  boat  carrying  him  away.  Her  own  little 
craft,  the  sail  of  which  she  knew  how  to  trim — her 
bird,  her  flier,  her  food- winner — was  to  become  her 
robber. 

"  When  the  war  is  over,"  she  ventured,  "  then 
you  might  come  back." 

He  began  to  explain  difficulties  like  an  honest 
lad,  and  she  stopped  him.  "  I  do  not  want  to  know 
anything.  I  want  you  to  take  my  boat." 

He  put  the  cup  down  and  seized  her  hands  and 
kissed  them.  She  crouched  against  the  cave's  side, 

12 


MARIANSON 

her  eyes  closed.  If  he  was  only  grateful  to  her  for 
bread  and  shelter  and  means  of  escape,  it  was  little 
enough  she  received,  but  his  warm  touch  and  his 
lips  on  her  palms — for  he  kissed  her  palms — made 
her  none  the  less  dizzy. 

"  Listen  to  me,"  said  Marianson.  "  If  I  give  you 
my  boat,  you  must  do  exactly  as  I  bid  you." 

"  I  promise." 

"  You  must  stay  here  until  I  bring  it  to  you.  I 
am  going  at  once." 

"  But  you  cannot  go  alone  in  the  dark.  You  are 
a  woman — you  will  be  afraid." 

"  Never  in  my  life  have  I  been  afraid." 

"  But  there  are  Indians  on  the  war-path  now." 

"  They  will  be  in  camp  or  drunk  at  the  post. 
Your  Sioux  has  left  this  part  of  the  island.  He 
may  come  back  by  morning,  but  he  would  not  camp 
away  from  so  much  plunder.  Sioux  cannot  be 
unlike  our  Chippewas.  Do  you  think,"  demanded 
Marianson,  "  that  you  will  be  quite,  quite  safe  in 
the  cave  ?" 

Her  companion  laughed. 

"  If  I  find  the  cave  unsafe  I  can  leave  it ;  but  you 
in  the  dark  alone — you  must  let  me  go  with  you." 

"  No  ;  the  risk  is  too  great.  It  is  better  for  me 
to  go  alone.  I  know  every  rock,  every  bend  of  the 
shore.  The  pull  back  around  the  island  will  be 
hardest,  if  there  is  not  enough  wind." 

"  I  go  with  you,"  decided  the  boy. 

"  But  you  gave  me  your  promise  to  do  exactly  as 
I  bade  you.  I  am  older  than  you,"  said  Marianson. 

13 


MARIANSON 

"  I  know  what  is  best,  and  that  is  that  you  remain 
here  until  I  come.     Swear  to  me  that  you  will." 

He  was  silent,  beseeching  her  with  his  eyes  to 
relent.  Then,  owning  her  right  to  dominate,  he 
pledged  her  by  the  name  of  his  saint  to  do  as  she 
required. 

Their  forced  companionship,  begun  at  daylight, 
was  ending  as  darkness  crept  through  the  cavern's 
mouth.  They  waited,  and  those  last  moments  of 
silence,  while  they  leaned  to  look  closely  at  each 
other  with  the  night  growing  between  them,  were 
a  benediction  on  the  day. 

Marianson  stooped  to  creep  through  the  cavern's 
mouth,  but  once  more  she  turned  and  looked  at 
him,  and  it  was  she  herself  who  stretched  appealing 
arms.  The  boy's  shyness  and  the  woman's  aversion 
to  men  vanished  as  in  fire.  They  stood  together  in 
the  hollow  of  the  cave  in  one  long  embrace.  He 
sought  her  mouth  and  kissed  her,  and,  suffocating 
with  joy,  she  escaped  through  the  low  door. 

Indifferent  to  the  Indian  who  might  be  dogging 
her,  she  drew  her  strip  of  home-spun  around  her 
face  and  ran,  moccasined  and  deft-footed,  over  the 
stones,  warm,  palpitating,  and  laughing,  full  of  phys 
ical  hardihood.  In  the  woods,  on  her  left,  she 
knew  there  were  rocks  splashed  with  stain  black  as 
ink  and  crusted  with  old  lichens.  On  her  right 
white-caps  were  running  before  the  west  wind  and 
diving  like  ducks  on  the  strait.  She  crossed  the 
threads  of  a  brook  ravelling  themselves  from  den 
sity.  For  the  forest  was  a  mask.  But  Marianson 


MARIANSON 

knew  well  the  tricks  of  that  brook — its  pellucid 
shining  on  pebbles,  its  cascades,  its  hidings  under 
ground  of  all  but  a  voice  and  a  crystal  pool.  Wet 
to  her  knees,  she  had  more  than  once  followed  it  to 
its  source  amid  such  greenery  of  moss  and  logs  as 
seemed  a  conflagration  of  verdure. 

The  many  points  and  bays  of  the  island  sped  be 
hind  her,  and  cliffs  crowded  her  to  the  water's  edge 
or  left  her  a  dim  moving  object  on  a  lonesome 
beach.  Sometimes  she  heard  sounds  in  the  woods 
and  listened ;  on  the  other  hand,  she  had  the  com 
panionship  of  stars  and  moving  water.  On  that 
glorified  journey  Marianson's  natural  fearlessness 
carried  her  past  the  Devil's  Kitchen  and  quite  near 
the  post  before  she  began  to  consider  how  it  was 
best  to  approach  a  place  which  might  be  in  the 
hands  of  an  enemy.  Her  boat  was  tied  at  the  dock. 
She  had  the  half -ruined  distillery  yet  to  pass.  It 
had  stood  under  the  cliff  her  lifetime.  As  she  drew 
nearer,  cracks  of  light  and  a  hum  like  the  droning 
of  a  beehive  magically  turned  the  old  distillery  into 
a  caravansary  of  spirits. 

Nothing  in  her  long  tramp  had  startled  her  like 
this.  It  was  a  relief  to  hear  the  click  of  metal  and 
a  strange-spoken  word,  and  to  find  herself  face  to 
face  with  an  English  soldier.  He  made  no  parley, 
but  marched  her  before  him  ;  and  the  grateful  noise 
of  squalling  babies  and  maternal  protests  and 
Maman  Pelott's  night  lullaby  also  met  her  as  they 
proceeded  towards  the  distillery. 

The  long  dark  shed  had  a  chimney-stack  and  its 
15 


MARIANSON 

many-coiled  still  in  one  end.  Beside  that  great  bot 
tle-shaped  thing,  at  the  base  of  the  chimney,  was 
an  open  fireplace  piled  with  flaming  sticks,  and 
this  had  made  the  luminous  crevices.  All  Mackinac 
village  was  gathered  within  the  walls,  and  Marian- 
son  beheld  a  camp  supping,  putting  children  to  bed 
on  blankets  in  corners,  sitting  and  shaking  fingers 
at  one  another  in  wrathful  council,  or  running  about 
in  search  of  lost  articles.  The  cure  was  there,  keep 
ing  a  restraint  on  his  people.  Clothes  hung  on 
spikes  like  rows  of  suicides  in  the  weird  light. 
Even  fiddlers  and  jollity  were  not  lacking.  A 
heavier  race  would  have  come  to  blows  in  that 
strait  enclosure,  but  these  French  and  half-breeds, 
in  danger  of  scalping  if  the  Indians  proved  turbu 
lent,  dried  their  eyes  after  losses,  and  shook  their 
legs  ready  for  a  dance  at  the  scraping  of  a  violin. 

Little  Ignace  Pelott  was  directly  pulling  at  Mari- 
anson's  petticoat  to  get  attention. 

"  De  Ingins  kill  our  'effer,"  he  lamented,  in  the 
mongrel  speech  of  the  quarter-breed.  "  Dey  didn't 
need  him ;  dey  have  plenty  to  eat.  But  dey  kill 
our  'effer  and  laugh." 

"  My  cow,  is  it  also  killed,  Ignace  ?" 

Marianson's  neighbors  closed  around  her,  unsur 
prised  at  her  late  arrival,  filled  only  with  the  gen 
eral  calamity.  Old  men's  pipe  smoke  mingled  with 
odors  of  food ;  and  when  the  English  soldier  had 
satisfied  himself  that  she  belonged  to  this  caldron 
of  humanity,  he  lifted  the  corners  of  his  nose  and 
returned  to  open  air  and  guard  duty. 

16 


MARIANSON 

The  fort  had  been  surrendered  without  a  shot,  to 
save  the  lives  of  the  villagers,  and  they  were  all 
hurried  to  the  distillery  and  put  under  guard. 
They  would  be  obliged  to  take  the  oath  of  alle 
giance  to  England,  or  leave  the  island.  Michael 
Dousman,  yet  held  in  the  enemy's  camp,  was  fierce 
ly  accused  of  bringing  the  English  upon  them. 
No,  Marianson  could  not  go  to  the  village,  or  even 
to  the  dock. 

Everybody  offered  her  food.  A  boat  she  did 
not  ask  for.  The  high  cobwebby  openings  of  the 
distillery  looked  on  a  blank  night  sky.  Marianson 
felt  her  happiness  jarred  as  the  wonderful  day  came 
to  such  limits.  The  English  had  the  island.  It 
might  be  searched  for  that  young  deserter  waiting 
for  her  help,  and  if  she  failed  to  get  a  boat,  what 
must  be  his  fate  ? 

She  had  entered  the  west  door  of  the  distillery. 
She  found  opportunity  to  slip  out  on  the  east  side, 
for  it  was  necessary  to  reach  the  dock  and  get  a 
boat.  She  might  risk  being  scalped,  but  a  boat  at 
any  cost  she  would  have,  and  one  was  sent  her — as 
to  the  fearless  and  determined  all  their  desires  are 
sent.  She  heard  the  thump  of  oars  in  rowlocks, 
bringing  the  relief  guard,  and  with  a  swish,  out  of 
the  void  of  the  lake  a  keel  ran  upon  pebbles. 

So  easy  had  been  the  conquest  of  the  island,  the 
British  regular  found  his  amusement  in  his  duty, 
and  a  boat  was  taken  from  the  dock  to  save  half  a 
mile  of  easy  marching.  It  stood  empty  and  wait 
ing  during  a  lax  minute,  while  the  responsibility  of 
B  17 


MARIANSON 

guarding  was  shifted ;  but  perhaps  being  carelessly 
beached,  though  there  was  no  tide  on  the  strait,  it 
drifted  away. 

Marianson,  who  had  helped  it  drift,  lay  flat  on 
the  bottom  and  heard  the  rueful  oaths  of  her 
enemies,  forced  to  march  back  to  the  post.  There 
was  no  sail.  She  steered  by  a  trailing  oar  until 
lighted  distillery  and  black  cliff  receded  and  it  was 
safe  for  her  to  fix  her  sculls  and  row  with  all  her 
might. 

She  was  so  tired  her  heart  physically  ached  when 
she  slipped  through  dawn  to  a  landing  opposite 
the  cave.  There  would  be  no  more  yesterdays, 
and  there  would  be  no  time  for  farewells.  The 
wash  which  drove  her  roughly  to  mooring  drove 
with  her  the  fact  that  she  did  not  know  even  the 
name  of  the  man  she  was  about  to  give  up. 

Marianson  turned  and  looked  at  the  water  he 
must  venture  upon,  without  a  sail  to  help  him.  It 
was  not  all  uncovered  from  the  night,  but  a  long 
purple  current  ran  out,  as  if  God  had  made  a  sud 
den  amethyst  bridge  across  the  blue  strait. 

Eeluctant  as  she  was  to  call  him  from  the  cave, 
she  dared  not  delay.  The  breath  of  the  virgin 
-woods  was  overpoweringly  sweet.  Her  hair  clung 
to  her  forehead  in  moist  rings,  and  her  cheeks  were 
pallid  and  wet  with  mist  which  rose  and  rose  on  all 
sides  like  clouds  in  a  holy  picture. 

He  was  asleep. 

She  crouched  down  on  cold  hands  and  saw  that. 
He  had  waited  in  the  cave  as  he  promised,  and  had 

18 


MARIANSON 

fallen  asleep.  His  back  was  towards  her.  Instead 
of  lying  at  ease,  his  body  was  flexed.  Her  enlarg 
ing  pupils  caught  a  stain  of  red  on  the  bear-skin, 
then  the  scarlet  tonsure  on  his  crown.  He  was 
asleep,  but  the  Sioux  had  been  there. 

The  low  song  of  wind  along  that  wooded  ridge, 
and  the  roar  of  dashing  lake  water,  repeated  their 
monotone  hour  after  hour.  It  proved  as  fair  a  day 
as  the  island  had  ever  seen,  and  when  it  was  near 
ly  spent,  Marianson  Bruelle  still  sat  on  the  cave 
floor  holding  the  dead  boy  in  her  arms.  Heart- 
uprooting  was  a  numbness,  like  rapture.  At  least 
he  could  not  leave  her.  She  had  his  kiss,  his  love. 
She  had  his  body,  to  hide  in  a  grave  as  secret  as 
a  flower's.  The  cure  could  some  time  bless  it, 
but  the  English  who  had  slain  him  should  never 
know  it.  As  she  held  him  to  her  breast,  so  the 
sweet  processes  of  the  woods  should  hold  him,  and 
make  him  part  of  the  island. 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 


OVER,  a  hundred  voyageurs  were  sorting  furs 
in  the  American  Fur  Company's  yard,  un 
der  the  supervision  of  the  clerks.  And 
though  it  was  hard  labor,  lasting  from  five  in  the 
morning  until  sunset,  they  thought  lightly  of  it  as 
fatigue  duty  after  their  eleven  months  of  toil  and 
privation  in  the  wilderness.  Fort  Mackinac  was 
glittering  white  on  the  heights  above  them,  and 
half-way  up  a  paved  ascent  leading  to  the  sally-port 
sauntered  'Tite  Laboise.  All  the  voyageurs  saw 
her;  and  strict  as  was  the  discipline  of  the  yard, 
they  directly  expected  trouble. 

The  packing,  however,  went  on  with  vigor. 
Every  beaver,  marten,  mink,  musk-rat,  raccoon, 
lynx,  wild -cat,  fox,  wolverine,  otter,  badger,  or 
other  skin  had  to  be  beaten,  graded,  counted,  tal 
lied  in  the  company's  book,  put  into  press,  and 
marked  for  shipment  to  John  Jacob  Astor  in  New 
York.  As  there  were  twelve  grades  of  sable,  and 
eight  even  of  deer,  the  grading,  which  feil  to  the 
clerks,  was  no  light  task.  Heads  of  brigades  that 
had  brought  these  furs  from  the  wilderness  stood  by 
to  challenge  any  mistake  in  the  count.  It  was  the 

20 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

height  of  the  fur  season,  and  Mackinac  Island  was 
the  front  of  the  world  to  the  two  or  three  thousand 
men  gathered  in  for  its  brief  summer. 

Axe  strokes  reverberated  from  Bois  Blanc,  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  strait,  and  passed  echoes  from 
island  to  island  to  the  shutting  down  of  the  horizon. 
Choppers  detailed  to  cut  wood  were  getting  boat 
loads  ready  for  the  leachers,  who  had  hulled  corn 
to  prepare  for  winter  rations.  One  pint  of  lyed 
corn  with  from  two  to  four  ounces  of  tallow  was 
the  daily  allowance  of  a  voyageur,  and  the  endur 
ance  which  this  food  gave  him  passes  belief. 

Etienne  St.  Martin  grumbled  at  it  when  he  came 
fresh  from  Canada  and  pork  eating.  "  Mange'-du- 
lard,"  his  companions  called  him,  especially  Charle' 
Charette,  who  was  the  giant  and  the  wearer  of  the 
black  feather  in  his  brigade  of  a  dozen  boats.  Huge 
and  innocent  primitive  man  was  Charle'  Charette. 
He  could  sleep  under  snow-drifts  like  a  baby,  carry 
double  packs  of  furs,  pull  oars  all  day  without  tir 
ing,  and  dance  all  night  after  hardships  which 
caused  some  men  to  desire  to  lie  down  and  die. 
The  summer  before,  at  nineteen  years  of  age,  this 
light-haired,  light-hearted  voyageur  had  been  mar 
ried  to  'Tite  Laboise.  Their  wedding  festivities 
lasted  the  whole  month  of  the  Mackinac  season. 
His  was  the  Wabash  and  Illinois  Kiver  outfit,  almost 
the  last  to  leave  the  island ;  for  the  Lake  Superior, 
Upper  and  Lower  Mississippi,  Lake  of  the  Woods, 
and  other  outfits  were  obliged  to  seek  Indian  hunt 
ing-grounds  at  the  earliest  breath  of  autumn. 

21 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

When  the  Illinois  brigade  returned,  his  wife,  who 
had  stood  weeping  in  the  cheering  crowd  while  his 
companions  made  islands  ring  with  the  boat-song  at 
departure,  refused  to  see  him.  He  went  to  the 
house  of  her  aunt  Laboise,  where  she  lived.  Made 
moiselle  Laboise,  her  half-breed  cousin,  met  him. 
This  educated  young  lady,  daughter  of  a  French 
father  and  Chippewa  mother,  was  dignified  as  a 
nun  in  her  dress  of  blue  broadcloth  embroidered 
with  porcupine  quills.  She  was  always  called 
Mademoiselle  Laboise,  while  the  French  girl  was 
called  merely  'Tite.  Because  'Tite  was  married,  no 
one  considered  her  name  changed  to  Madame 
Charette.  To  her  husband  himself  she  was  'Tite 
Laboise,  the  most  aggravating,  delicious,  unaccount 
able  creature  in  the  Northwest. 

"  She  says  she  will  not  see  you,  Charley'  said 
Mademoiselle  Laboise,  color  like  sunset  vermilion 
showing  in  the  delicate  aboriginal  face. 

"  What  have  I  done?"  gasped  the  voyageur. 

Mademoiselle  lifted  French  shoulders  with  her 
father's  gesture.  She  did  not  know. 

"Did  I  expect  to  be  treated  this  way?"  shouted 
the  injured  husband. 

"  Who  can  ever  tell  what  'Tite  will  do  next?" 

That  was  the  truth.  No  one  could  tell.  Yet 
her  flightiest  moods  were  her  most  alluring  moods. 
If  she  had  not  been  so  pretty  and  so  adroit  at  dodg 
ing  whippings  when  a  child,  'Tite  Laboise  might 
not  have  set  Mackinac  by  the  ears  as  often  as  she 
did.  But  her  husband  could  not  comfort  himself 

22 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

with  this  thought  as  he  turned  to  the  shop  of 
madame  her  aunt,  who  was  also  a  trader. 

It  had  surprised  the  Indian  widow,  who  betrothed 
her  own  daughter  to  the  commandant  of  the  fort, 
that  her  husband's  niece  would  have  nobody  but 
that  big  voyageur  Charle'  Charette.  Though  in 
those  days  of  the  young  century  a  man  might  become 
anything;  for  the  West  was  before  him,  an  empire, 
and  woodcraft  was  better  than  learning.  Madame 
Laboise  accepted  her  niece's  husband  with  kindness. 
Her  house  was  among  the  most  hospitable  in  Macki- 
nac,  and  she  was  chagrined  at  the  reception  the 
young  man  had  met. 

He  sat  down  on  her  counter,  whirling  his  cap 
and  caressing  the  black  feather  in  it.  The  gentle 
Chippewa  woman  could  see  that  his  childish  pride 
in  this  trophy  was  almost  as  great  as  his  trouble. 
What  had  'Tite  lacked?  he  wanted  to  know.  Had 
he  not  good  credit  at  the  stores?  Tonnerre! — if 
madame  would  pardon  him — was  not  his  entire 
year's  wage  at  the  girl's  service?  Had  he  spent 
money  on  himself,  except  for  tobacco  and  necessary 
buckskins?  Madame  knew  a  voyageur  was  allowed 
to  carry  scarce  twenty  pounds  of  baggage  in  the 
boats. 

Did  'Tite  want  a  better  man?  Let  madame  look 
at  the  black  feather  in  his  cap.  The  crow  did  not 
fly  that  could  furnish  a  quill  he  could  not  take  from 
any  man  in  his  brigade.  Charle'  threw  out  the  arch 
of  his  beautiful  torso.  And  he  loved  her.  Madame 
knew  what  tears  he  had  shed,  what  serenades  he  had 

23 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

played  on  his  fiddle  under  'Tite's  window,  and  how 
he  had  outdanced  her  other  partners.  He  dropped 
his  head  on  his  breast  and  picked  at  the  crow's 
feather. 

The  widow  Laboise  pitied  him.  But  who  could 
account  for  'Tite's  whims?  "When  she  heard  the 
boats  were  in  sight  she  was  frantic  with  joy.  I 
myself,"  asserted  madame, "  saw  her  clapping  her 
hands  when  we  could  catch  the  song  of  the  return 
ing  voyageurs.  It  was  then  '  Oh,  my  Charle' !  my 
Charle'!'  But  scarce  have  the  men  leaped  on  the 
dock  when  off  she  goes  and  locks  the  door  of  her 
bedroom.  It  is  'Tite.  I  can  say  no  more." 

"What  off  ended  her?" 

"  I  know  of  nothing.  You  have  been  as  good  a 
husband  as  a  voyageur  could  be.  And  Mackinac 
is  so  dull  in  winter  she  can  amuse  herself  but  little. 
It  was  hard  for  her  to  wait  your  return.  Now  she 
will  not  look  at  you.  It  is  very  silly." 

What  would  Madame  Laboise  advise  him  to  do? 

Madame  would  advise  him  to  wait  as  if  nothing 
had  occurred.  The  cure  would  admonish  'Tite  if 
she  continued  her  sulking.  In  the  mean  time  he 
must  content  himself  with  tenting  or  lodging  among 
his  fellow-voyageurs. 

Of  the  two  or  three  thousand  voyageurs  and 
clerks,  one  hundred  lived  in  the  agency  house,  five 
hundred  were  accommodated  in  barracks,  but  the 
majority  found  shelter  in  tents  and  in  the  houses  of 
the  villagers.  Every  night  of  the  fur-trading  month 
there  was  a  ball  in  Mackinac,  given  either  by  the 

24 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

householders  or  their  guests ;  and  it  often  happened 
that  a  man  spent  in  one  month  all  he  had  earned 
by  his  year  of  tremendous  and  far-reaching  toil. 
But  he  had  society,  and  what  was  to  him  the  cream 
of  existence,  while  it  lasted.  He  fitted  himself  out 
with  new  shirts  and  buckskins,  sashes,  caps,  neips, 
and  moccasins,  and  when  he  was  not  on  duty 
showed  himself  like  a  hero,  knife  in  sheath,  a  weath 
er-browned  and  sinewy  figure.  To  dance,  sing, 
drink,  and  play  the  violin,  and  have  the  scant  dozen 
white  women,  the  half-breeds,  and  squaws  of  Macki- 
nac  admire  him,  was  a  voyageur's  heaven — its  brief 
duration  being  its  charm.  For  he  was  a  born 
woodsman  and  loved  his  life. 

Charle'  Charette  did  not  care  where  he  lodged. 
Neither  had  he  any  heart  to  dance,  until  he  looked 
through  the  door  of  the  house  where  festivities  be 
gan  that  season  and  saw  'Tite  Laboise  footing  it 
with  Etienne  St.  Martin.  Parbleu !  With  Etienne 
St.  Martin,  the  squab  little  lard -eater  whose  brother, 
Alexis  St.  Martin,  had  been  put  into  doctors'  books 
on  account  of  having  his  stomach  partly  shot  away, 
and  a  valve  forming  over  the  rent  so  that  his  diges 
tion  could  be  watched.  It  was  disgusting.  'Tite 
would  not  speak  to  her  own  husband,  but  she  would 
come  out  before  all  Mackinac  and  dance  with  any 
other  voyageurs  who  crowded  about  her.  Charle' 
sprang  into  the  house  himself,  and  without  looking 
at  his  wife,  hilariously  led  other  women  to  the  best 
places,  and  danced  with  every  sinuous  and  graceful 
curve  of  his  bod}^.  'Tite  did  not  look  at  him.  From 

25 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

the  corner  of  his  eye  he  noted  how  perfect  she  was, 
the  fiend  !  and  how  well  she  had  dressed  herself  on 
his  money.  All  the  brigades  knew  his  trouble  by 
that  time,  and  an  easy  breath  was  drawn  by  his  en 
tertainers  when  he  left  the  house  with  knife  still 
sheathed.  In  the  wilderness  the  will  of  a  brigade 
commander  was  law ;  but  when  the  voyageur  was 
out  of  the  Fur  Company's  yard  in  Mackinac  his 
own  will  was  law. 

One  of  the  cautious  clerks  suggested  that  Charle' 
and  iiltienne  be  separated  in  their  work,  since  it  was 
likely  the  husband  might  quarrel  with  'Tite  Laboise's 
dancing  partner. 

"  Turn  'em  in  together,  man,"  chuckled  the  Scotch 
agent,  Robert  Stuart,  who  had  charge  of  the  out 
side  work.  "  Let  'em  fight.  Man  Gurdon,  I  havena 
had  any  sport  with  these  wild  lads  since  the  boats 
came  in." 

But  the  combatants  he  hoped  to  see  worked 
steadily  until  afternoon  without  coming  to  the 
grip.  They  had  no  brute  Anglo-Saxon  antagonism, 
and  being  occupied  with  different  bales,  did  not 
face  each  other. 

The  triple  row  of  Indian  lodges  basked  on  the 
incurved  beach,  where  a  thousand  Indians  had 
gathered  to  celebrate  that  vivid  month.  Night 
and  day  the  thump  of  their  drums  and  the  monot 
onous  chant  of  their  dances  could  be  heard  above 
the  rush  and  whisper  of  blue  water  breaking  on 
pebbles. 

Lake  Michigan  was  a  deep  sapphire  color,  and 
26 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

from  where  she  stood  below  the  sally-port  'Tite 
Laboise  could  see  the  mainland's  rim  of  beach  and 
slopes  of  forest  near  and  distinct  in  transparent 
light.  And  she  could  hear  the  farthest  shaking  of 
echoes  from  island  to  island  like  a  throb  of  some 
sublime  wind  instrument.  The  whitewashed  block 
house  at  the  west  angle  of  the  fort  shone  a  marble 
turret.  There  was  a  low  meadow  between  the  Fur 
Company's  yard  and  pine  heights.  Though  no  salt 
tang  came  in  the  wind,  it  blew  sweet,  refreshing 
the  men  at  their  dog-day  labor.  And  all  the  spell 
of  that  island,  which  since  it  rose  from  the  water  it 
has  held,  lay  around  them. 

Etienne  St.  Martin  picked  up  a  beaver-skin,  and 
in  the  sight  of  'Tite  Laboise  her  husband  laid  hold 
of  it. 

"  Eelease  that,  Mange'-du-lard,"  he  said. 

"  Eh  bien  !"  responded  Etienne,  knowing  that  he 
was  challenged  and  the  eyes  of  the  whole  yard  were 
on  him.  "  This  fine  crow  he  claims  all  Mackinac 
because  he  carries  a  black  feather  in  his  cap.  There 
are  black  feathers  in  other  brigades." 

"  But  you  never  wore  one  in  any  brigade." 

They  dropped  the  skin  and  faced  each  other,  feel 
ing  the  fastenings  of  their  belts.  Old  Robert 
Stuart  slipped  up  a  window  in  the  office  and 
grinned  slyly  out  at  the  men  surging  towards  that 
side  of  the  yard.  He  would  not  usually  permit  a 
breach  of  discipline.  But  the  winter  had  been  so 
long ! 

"  Myself  I  have  no  need   of  black  feathers." 

27 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

Etienne  gave  an  insolent  cast  of  the  eye  to  the 
height  where  'Tite  Laboise  stood. 

Charle',  magnificent  of  inches,  scorned  his  less- 
developed  antagonist. 

"  Eh,  man  Gurdon,"  softly  called  old  Eobert 
Stuart  from  his  window,  "  set  them  to  it,  will  ye  ? 
The  lads  will  be  jawing  till  the  morn's  morn." 

This  equivocal  order  had  little  effect  on  the  or 
dained  course  of  a  voyageur's  quarrel. 

"  These  St.  Martins  without  stomachs,  how  is  a 
man  to  hit  them? — pouf !"  said  Charle',  and  Etienne 
felt  on  his  tender  spot  the  cruel  allusion  to  his 
brother  Alexis,  whose  stomach  had  been  made 
public  property.  He  began  to  shed  tears  of  wrath. 

"I  will  take  your  scalp  for  that!  As  for  the 
black  feather,  I  trample  it  under  my  foot !" 

"  Let  me  see  you  trample  it.  And  my  head  is 
not  so  easily  scalped  as  your  brother's  stomach." 

All  the  time  they  were  dancing  around  each 
other  in  graceful  and  menacing  feints.  But  now 
they  clinched,  and  Charle'  Charette,  when  the 
struggle  had  lasted  two  or  three  minutes,  took  his 
antagonist  like  a  puppy  and  flung  him  revolving  to 
the  ground.  He  hitched  his  belt  and  glanced  up 
towards  the  sally-port  as  he  stood  back  laughing. 

Etienne  was  on  foot  with  a  tiger's  bound.  He 
had  no  chance  with  the  wearer  of  the  black  feather, 
as  everybody  in  the  yard  knew,  and  usually  a  beat 
en  antagonist  was  ready  to  shake  hands  after  a  few 
trials  of  strength.  But  he  seized  one  of  the  knives 
used  in  opening  packs  and  struck  at  the  victor's 

28 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

side.  As  soon  as  he  had  struck  and  the  bloody  knife 
came  back  in  his  hand  he  crouched  and  rolled  his 
eyes  around  in  apology.  JSTo  man  was  afraid  of 
shedding  blood  in  those  days,  but  he  felt  he  had 
gone  too  far — that  his  quarrel  was  not  sufficiently 
grounded.  He  heard  a  woman's  scream,  and  the 
sharp  checking  exclamation  of  his  master,  and  felt 
himself  seized  on  each  side.  There  was  much  con 
fusion  in  his  mind  and  in  the  yard,  but  he  knew 
'Tite  Laboise  flew  through  the  gate  and  past  him, 
and  he  tried  to  propitiate  her  by  a  look. 

"  Pig !"  she  projected  at  him  like  a  missile,  and 
he  sat  down  on  the  ground  between  the  guards  who 
were  trying  to  hold  him  up  and  wept  copiously. 

"I  didn't  want  to  have  trouble  with  that 
Charle'  Charette  and  that  'Tite  Laboise,"  explained 
Etienne.  "  And  I  don't  want  any  black  feather. 
It  was  my  brother's  stomach.  On  account  of  my 
brother's  stomach  I  have  to  fight.  If  they  do  not 
let  my  brother's  stomach  alone,  I  will  have  to  kill 
the  whole  brigade." 

But  Charle'  Charette  walked  into  the  Fur  Com 
pany's  building  feeling  nothing  but  disdain  for  the 
puny  stock  of  St.  Martin,  as  he  held  out  his  arm 
and  let  the  blood  drip  from  a  little  wound  that 
stained  his  calico  shirt-sleeve.  The  very  neips 
around  his  ankles  seemed  to  tingle  with  desire  to 
kick  poor  Etienne. 

It  was  not  necessary  to  send  for  the  surgeon  of 
the  fort.  Robert  Stuart  dressed  the  wound,  salv 
ing  it  with  the  rebukes  which  he  knew  discipline 
.  29 


THE    BLACK    FEATHEK 

demanded,  and  making  them  as  strong  as  his  own 
enjoyment  had  been.  He  promised  to  break  the 
head  of  every  voyageur  in  the  yard  with  a  board  if 
another  quarrel  occurred.  And  he  pretended  not 
to  see  the  culprit's  trembling  wife,  that  little  besom 
whose  caprices  had  set  the  men  by  the  ears  ever 
since  she  was  old  enough  to  know  the  figures  of  a 
dance,  yet  for  whom  he  and  Mrs.  Stuart  had  a 
warm  corner  in  their  hearts.  She  had  caused  the 
first  fracas  of  the  season,  moreover.  He  went  out 
and  slammed  the  office  door,  ordering  the  men 
away  from  it. 

"  Bring  me  yon  Etienne  St.  Martin,"  command 
ed  Mr.  Stuart,  preparing  his  arsenal  of  strong  lan 
guage.  "  I'll  have  a  word  with  yon  carl  for  this." 

The  noise  of  the  one-sided  conflict  could  be  heard 
in  the  office,  but  'Tite  remained  as  if  she  heard 
nothing,  with  her  head  and  arms  on  the  desk.  Her 
husband  took  up  the  cap  with  the  black  feather, 
which  he  had  thrown  off  in  the  presence  of  his  su 
perior.  He  rested  it  against  his  side,  his  elbow 
pointing  a  triangle,  and  waited  aggressively  for  her 
to  speak.  The  back  of  her  pretty  neck  and  fine 
tendrils  of  curly  hair  ruffled  above  it  were  very 
moving;  but  his  heart  swelled  indignantly. 

"'Tite  Laboise,  why  did  you  shut  the  door  in 
my  face  when  I  came  back  to  you  after  a  year's 
absence?" 

She  answered  faintly,  "Me,  I  don't  know." 

"  And  dance  with  Etienne  St.  Martin  until  I  am 
obliged  to  whip  him?" 

30 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

"  Me,  I  don't  know." 

"  Yes,  you  do  know.  You  have  concealments," 
he  accused,  and  she  made  no  defence.  "  This  is  the 
case  :  you  run  to  the  dock  to  see  the  boats  come 
in  ;  you  are  joyful  until  you  watch  me  step  ashore ; 
I  look  for  'Tite ;  her  back  is  disappearing  at  the 
corner  of  the  street.  Eh  bien !  I  say,  she  would 
rather  meet  me  in  the  house.  I  fly  to  the  house. 
My  wife  refuses  to  see  me." 

'Tite  made  no  answer. 

"  What  have  I  done  ?"  Charle'  spread  his  hands. 
"  My  commandant  has  no  complaint  to  make  of  me. 
It  is  Charle'  Charette  who  leads  on  the  trail  or 
breaks  a  road  where  there  is  none,  and  carries  the 
heaviest  pack  of  furs,  and  pulls  men  out  of  the 
water  when  they  are  drowning ;  it  is  Charle'  Cha 
rette  who  can  best  endure  fasting  when  the  rations 
run  low,  and  can  hunt  and  bring  in  meat  when  other 
voyageurs  lie  exhausted  about  the  camp-fire.  I  am 
no  little  lard-eater  from  Canada,  brother  to  a  man 
with  a  stomach  having  no  lid.  Look  at  that." 
Charle'  shook  the  decorated  cap  at  her.  "  I  wear 
the  black  feather  of  my  brigade.  That  means  that 
I  am  the  best  man  in  it." 

His  wife  reared  her  head.  She  was  like  the  wild 
sweet-brier  roses  which  crowded  alluvial  strips  of 
the  island,  fragrant  and  pink  and  bristling.  "  Yes, 
monsieur,  that  black  feather — regard  it.  Me,  I  am 
sick  of  that  black  feather.  You  say  I  have  con 
cealments.  I  have.  All  winter  I  go  lonely.  The 
ice  is  massed  on  the  lake  ;  the  snow  is  so  deep,  the 

31 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

wind  is  keener  than  a  knife  ;  I  weep  for  my  hus 
band  away  in  the  wilderness,  believing  he  thinks 
of  me.  Eh  bien !  he  comes  back  to  Mackinac.  It 
is  as  you  say :  I  fly  to  meet  him,  my  breath  chokes 
me.  But  my  husband,  what  does  he  do  ?"  She 
looked  him  up  and  down  with  wrathful  eyes.  "  He 
does  not  see  'Tite.  He  sees  nothing  but  that  black 
feather  in  his  cap  that  he  must  take  off  and  show 
to  Monsieur  Ramsay  Crooks  and  Monsieur  Stuart 
—while  his  wife  suffocates." 

Charle'  shrunk  from  his  height,  and  his  mouth 
opened  like  a  fish's.  "  But  I  thought  you  would  be 
proud  of  it." 

"  Me,  what  do  I  care  how  many  men  you  have 
thrown  down  ?  You  do  not  like  me  any  better  be 
cause  you  have  thrown  down  all  the  men  in  your 
brigade." 

"  She  is  jealous — jealous  of  a  feather !" 

Humbled  as  he  was  by  her  tongue,  the  young 
voyageur  felt  delighted  at  giving  his  wife  so  trivial 
a  rival. 

He  settled  his  belt  and  approached  her  and 
bowed.  "  Madame,  permit  me  to  offer  you  this 
black  quill,  which  I  have  won  for  your  sake,  and 
which  I  boasted  of  to  my  masters  that  they  might 
know  you  have  not  thrown  yourself  away  on  the 
poorest  creature  in  Mackinac.  Destroy  it,  ma- 
dame.  It  was  only  the  poor  token  of  my  love  for 
you." 

Graceful  and  polite  as  all  the  voyageurs  were, 
Charle'  Charette  was  the  prince  of  them  with  his 

32 


THE    BLACK    FEATHER 

big  sweet  presence  as  he  bent.  'Tite  flew  at  him 
and  flung  her  arms  around  his  neck.  After  the 
manner  of  Latin  peoples,  they  instantly  shed  tears 
upon  each  other,  and  the  black  feather  was  crushed 
between  their  breasts. 


THE  COBBLER  IN  THE  DEYIL'S 
KITCHEN 


EARLY  in  the  Mackinac  summer  Owen  Cun 
ning  took  his  shoemaker's  bench  and  all  his 
belongings  to  that  open  cavern  on  the  beach 
called  the  Devil's  Kitchen,  which  was  said  to  de 
rive  its  name  from  former  practices  of  the  Indians. 
They  roasted  prisoners  there.     The  inner  rock  re 
tained  old  smoke-stains. 

Though  appearing  a  mere  hole  in  the  cliff  to 
passing  canoe-men,  the  Devil's  Kitchen  was  really 
as  large  as  a  small  cabin,  rising  at  least  seven  feet 
from  a  floor  which  sloped  down  towards  the  water. 
Overhead,  through  an  opening  which  admitted  his 
body,  Owen  could  reach  a  natural  attic,  just  large 
enough  for  his  bed  if  he  contented  himself  with 
blankets,  And  an  Irishman  prided  himself  on 
being  tough  as  any  French  voyageur  who  slept 
blanketed  on  snow  in  the  winter  wilderness. 

The  rock  was  full  of  pockets,  enclosing  pebbles 
and  fragments.  By  knocking  out  the  contents  of 
these,  Owen  made  cupboards  for  his  food.  As  for 
clothes,  what  Mackinac -Islander  of  the  working- 

34 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

class,  in  those  days  of  the  Fur  Company's  prosper 
ity,  needed  more  than  he  had  on  ?  When  his 
clothes  wore  out,  Owen  could  go  to  the  traders' 
and  buy  more.  He  washed  his  other  shirt  in  the 
lake  at  his  feet,  and  hung  it  on  the  cedars  to  dry 
by  his  door.  Warm  evenings,  when  the  sun  had 
soaked  itself  in  limpid  ripples  until  its  crimson 
spread  through  them  afar,  Owen  stripped  himself 
and  went  bathing,  with  strong  snorts  of  enjoyment 
as  he  rose  from  his  plunge.  The  narrow  lake  rim 
was  littered  with  fragments  which  had  once  filled 
the  cavern.  Two  large  pieces  afforded  him  a  table 
and  a  seat  for  his  visitors. 

Owen  had  a  choice  of  water  for  his  drinking. 

O 

Not  thirty  feet  away  on  his  right  a  spring  burst 
from  the  cliff  and  gushed  through  its  little  pool 
down  the  beach.  It  was  cold  and  delicious. 

In  the  east  side  of  the  Kitchen  was  a  natural 
tiny  fireplace  a  couple  of  feet  high,  screened  by 
cedar  foliage  from  the  lake  wind.  Here  Owen 
cooked  his  meals,  and  the  smoke  was  generally  car 
ried  out  from  his  flueless  hearth.  The  straits  were 
then  full  of  fish,  and  he  had  not  far  to  throw  his 
lines  to  reach  deep  water. 

Dependent  on  the  patronage  of  Mackinac  village, 
the  Irishman  had  chosen  the  very  shop  which  would 
draw  notice  upon  himself.  His  customers  tramped 
out  to  him  along  a  rough  beach  under  the  heights, 
which  helped  to  wear  away  the  foot-gear  Owen 
mended.  They  stood  grinning  amiably  at  his  snug 
quarters.  It  was  told  as  far  as  Drummond  Island 

35 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

and  the  Sault  that  a  cobbler  lived  in  the  Devil's 
Kitchen  on  Mackinac. 

He  was  a  happy  fellow,  his  clean  Irish  skin 
growing  rosier  in  air  pure  as  the  air  of  mid-ocean. 
The  lake  spread  in  variegated  copper  lights  almost 
at  his  feet.  He  did  not  like  Mackinac  village  in 
summer,  when  the  engages  were  all  back,  and  Ind 
ians  camped  tribes  strong  on  the  beach,  to  receive 
their  money  from  the  government.  French  and 
savages  shouldered  one  another,  the  multitude  of 
them  making  a  great  hubbub  and  a  gay  show  of 
clothes  like  a  fair.  Every  voyageur  was  sparring 
with  every  other  voyageur.  A  challenge  by  the 
poke  of  a  fist,  and  lo !  a  ring  is  formed  and  two  are 
fighting.  The  whipped  one  gets  up,  shakes  hands 
with  his  conqueror,  and  off  they  go  to  drink  to 
gether.  Owen  despised  such  fighting.  His  way 
was  to  take  a  club  and  break  heads,  and  see  some 
blood  run  on  the  ground.  It  was  better  for  him 
to  dwell  alone  than  to  be  stirred  up  and  left  un 
satisfied. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  fresh  smell 
of  the  water  cheered  him  as  he  sat  stitching  on  a 
pair  of  deer-hide  shoes  for  one  Leon  Baudette,  an 
engage,  who  was  homesick  for  Montreal.  The 
lowering  sun  smote  an  hour-glass  of  light  across 
the  strait  which  separated  him  from  St.  Ignace  on 
the  north  shore,  the  old  Jesuit  station.  Mother- 
of-pearl  clouds  hung  over  the  southern  mainland, 
and  the  wash  of  the  lake,  which  was  as  pleasant  as 
silence  itself,  diverted  his  mind  from  a  distant 

36 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

thump  of  Indian  drums.  He  knew  how  lazy,  naked 
warriors  lay  in  their  lodges,  bumping  a  mallet  on 
stretched  deer-hide  and  droning  barbarous  mono 
tones  while  they  kicked  their  heels  in  air.  If  he 
despised  anything  more  than  the  way  the  French 
diverted  themselves,  it  was  the  way  the  Indians 
diverted  themselves. 

Without  a  sound  there  came  into  Owen's  view 
on  the  right  an  Indian  girl.  He  was  at  first  taken 
by  surprise  at  her  coming  over  the  moss  of  the 
spring.  The  shaggy  cliff,  clothed,  like  the  top  of 
his  cave,  with  cedars,  white  birch,  and  pine,  afforded 
no  path  to  the  beach  in  that  direction.  All  his 
clients  approached  by  the  lake  margin  at  the  left. 

Then  he  noticed  it  was  Blackbird,  a  Sac  girl,  who 
had  been  pointed  out  to  his  critical  eye  the  previous 
summer  as  a  beauty.  Owen  admitted  she  was  not 
bad-looking  for  a  squaw.  Her  burnished  hair, 
which  had  got  her  the  name,  was  drawn  down  to 
cheeks  where  copper  and  vermilion  infused  the  skin 
with  a  wonderful  sunset  tint.  She  was  neatly  and 
precisely  dressed  in  the  woman's  skirt  and  jacket 
of  her  tribe,  even  her  moccasins  showing  no  trace 
of  the  scramble  she  must  have  had  down  some 
secret  cliff  descent  in  order  to  approach  the  cob 
bler  unseen. 

He  greeted  her  with  the  contemptuous  affability 
which  an  Irishman  bestows  upon  a  heathen.  Black 
bird  was  probably  a  good  communicant  of  some 
wilderness  mission,  but  this  brought  her  no  nearer 
to  a  son  of  Ireland. 

37 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

"Good-day  to  the  quane!  And  what  may  she 
be  wanting  the  day?" 

Blackbird's  eyes,  without  the  snake-restlessness 
of  her  race,  dwelt  unmoving  upon  him.  Owen  sur 
mised  she  could  not  understand  his  or  any  other 
kind  of  English,  being  accustomed  to  no  tongue  but 
her  own,  except  the  French  which  the  engages 
talked  in  their  winter  camps.  She  stood  upright 
as  a  pine  without  answering. 

It  flashed  through  him  that  there  might  be  trouble 
in  the  village;  and  Blackbird,  having  regard  for  him, 
as  we  think  it  possible  any  human  being  may  have 
for  us,  was  there  to  bid  him  escape.  With  coldness 
around  the  roots  of  his  hair,  he  remembered  the 
massacre  at  Fort  Michilimackinac — a  spot  almost 
in  sight  across  the  strait,  where  south  shore  ap 
proaches  north  shore  at  the  mouth  of  Lake  Michigan. 
He  laid  down  his  boot.  His  lips  dropped  apart, 
and  with  a  hush  of  the  sound — if  such  a  sound  can 
be  hushed — he  imitated  the  Indian  war-whoop. 

Blackbird  did  not  smile  at  the  uncanny  screech, 
but  she  relaxed  her  face  in  stoic  amusement,  reliev 
ing  Owen's  tense  breathing.  There  was  no  plot. 
The  tribes  merely  intended  to  draw  their  money, 
get  as  drunk  as  possible,  and  depart  in  peace  at  the 
end  of  the  month  with  various  outfits  to  winter 
posts. 

"  Begorra,  but  that  was  a  narrow  escape!"  sighed 
Owen,  wiping  his  forehead  on  his  sleeve.  He  was 
able  to  detect  the  deference  that  Blackbird  paid 
him  by  this  visit.  He  sat  on  his  bench  in  the 

38 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

Kitchen,  a  sunny  idol  in  a  shrine,  indifferent  to  the 
effect  his  background  gave  him. 

His  mouth  puckered.  lie  put  up  his  leather 
stained  hand  coyly,  and  motioned  her  unmoving 
figure  back. 

"  Ah,  go  'way !  "Wasn't  it  to  escape  you  and  the 
likes  of  you  that  I  made  me  retrate  to  the  shore? 
Nayther  white,  full  haythen,  half,  nor  quarther 
nade  apply.  To  come  niakin'  the  big  eyes  at  me, 
and  the  post  swarmin'  wid  thim  that  do  be  ready 
to  marry  on  any  woman  at  the  droppin'  of  the  hat !" 

Mobile  blue  water  with  ripple  and  wash  made  a 
background  for  the  Indian  girl's  dense  repose.  She 
could  by  lifting  her  eyes  see  the  pock-marked  front 
of  Owen's  Kitchen,  and  gnarled  roots  like  exposed 
ribs  in  the  shaggy  heights  above.  But  she  kept 
her  eyes  lowered;  and  Owen  stuck  his  feet  under 
his  bench,  sensitive  to  defects  in  his  foot-wear, 
which  an  artist  skilled  in  making  and  mending 
moccasins  could  detect. 

Blackbird  moved  forward  and  laid  a  shining  dot 
on  the  stone  he  used  as  his  table;  then,  without  a 
word,  she  turned  and  disappeared  the  way  she 
came,  over  the  moss  of  the  spring  rivulet. 

Owen  left  his  bench  and  craned  after  her.  He 
did  not  hear  a  pebble  roll  on  the  stony  beach  or  a 
twig  snap  among  foliage. 

"Begorra,  it's  the  wings  of  a  say -gull!"  said 
Owen,  and  he  took  up  her  offering.  It  was  a  tiny 
gold  coin.  Mackinac  was  full  of  gold  the  month 
the  Indians  were  paid.  It  came  in  kegs  from 

39 


COBBLER    IN   THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

Washington,  under  the  escort  of  soldiers,  to  the 
United  States  Agency,  and  was  weighed  out  to  each, 
red  heir  despoiled  of  land  by  white  conquest,  in  his 
due  proportion,  and  immediately  grasped  from  the 
improvident  by  merchants,  for  a  little  pork,  a  little 
whiskey,  a  little  calico.  But  this  was  an  old  coin 
with  a  hole  in  it;  a  jewel  worn  suspended  from 
neck  or  ear;  the  precious  trinket  of  a  girl.  On  one 
side  was  rudely  scratched  the  outline  of  a  bird. 

"  Begorra!"  said  Owen.  He  hid  it  in  one  of  the 
rock  pockets,  a  trust  in  a  savings-bank,  and  sat 
down  again  to  work,  trying  to  discover  Blackbird's 
object  in  offering  tribute  to  him. 

About  sunset  he  lighted  a  fire  in  his  low  grate  to 
cook  his  supper,  and  put  the  finished  boots  in  a  re 
mote  corner  of  the  cave  until  he  should  get  his  pay. 
As  he  expected,  Leon  Baudette  appeared,  picking 
a  barefooted  way  along  the  beach,  with  many  com 
plimentary  greetings.  The  wary  cobbler  stood  be 
tween  the  boots  and  his  client,  and  responded  with 
open  cordiality.  A  voyageur  who  gave  flesh  and 
bone  and  sometimes  life  itself  for  a  hundred  dollars 
a  year,  and  drank  that  hundred  dollars  up  during 
his  month  of  semi-civilization  on  Mackinac,  seldom 
had  much  about  him  with  which  to  pay  for  his 
necessary  mending. 

Leon  Baudette  swore  at  the  price,  being  a  dis 
contented  engage.  But  the  foot-wear  he  was  obliged 
to  have,  being  secretly  determined  to  desert  tf> 
Canada  before  the  boats  went  out.  You  may  see 
his  name  marked  as  a  deserter  in  the  Fur  Company's 

40 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

books  at  Mackinac  Island.  So,  reluctantly  counting 
out  the  money,  he  put  on  his  shoes  and  crossed  his 
legs  to  smoke  and  chat,  occupying  the  visitor's  seat. 
Owen  put  his  kettle  to  boil,  and  sat  down  also  to 
enjoy  society;  for  why  should  man  be  hurried? 

He  learned  how  many  fights  had  been  fought 
that  day;  how  many  bales  of  furs  were  packed  in 
the  Company's  yard;  that  Etienne  St.  Martin  was 
trying  to  ship  with  the  Northern  instead  of  the 
Illinois  Brigade,  on  account  of  a  grudge  against 
Charle'  Charette.  He  learned  that  the  Indians  were 
having  snake  and  medicine  dances  to  cure  a  con 
sumptive  chief.  And,  to  his  surprise,  he  learned  that 
he  was  considered  a  medicine-man  among  the  tribes, 
on  account  of  his  living  unmolested  in  the  Devil's 
Kitchen. 

"  O  oui,"  declared  Leon.  "  You  de  wizard.  You 
only  play  you  mend  de  shoe ;  but,  by  gar,  you  make 
de  poor  voy ageur  pay  de  same  like  it  was  work !  I 
hear  dey  call  you  Big  Medicine  of  de  Cuisine  Diable." 

Owen  was  compelled  to  smile  with  pleasure  at  his 
importance,  his  long  upper  lip  lifting  its  unshaven 
bristles  in  a  white  curd. 

"  Do  ye  moind,  Leen  me  boy,  a  haythen  Injun 
lady  by  the  name  of  Blackbird?" 

"Me,  I  know  Blackbird,"  responded  Leon  Bau- 
dette. 

"Is  the  consoompted  chafe  that  they're  makin' 
the  snake  shindy  for  married  on  her  ?" 

"  No,  no.  Blackbird  she  wife  of  Jean  Magliss  in 
de  winter  camps." 

41 


COBBLER    IN   TEE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

"  John  McGillis?  Is  it  for  marry  in'  on  a  hay  then 
wife  he  is?" 

"  O  oui.  Two  wives.  One  good  Cat'olique.  Jean 
Magliss,  he  dance  every  night  now  with  Amable 
Morin's  girl.  The  more  weddings,  the  more  dancing. 
Me,"  Leon  shrugged,  "  I  no  want  a  woman  eating 
my  wages  in  Mackinac.  A  squaw  in  the  winter 
camps — *t  assez." 

"Two  wives,  the  bog-trotter!"  gulped  Owen. 
"  John  McGillis  is  a  blayguard!" 

"  Oui,  what  you  call  Irish,"  assented  Leon ;  and 
he  dodged,  but  the  cobbler  threw  nothing  at  him. 
Owen  marked  with  the  awl  on  his  own  leather  apron. 

"  First  a  haythen  and  then  a  quarther-brade,"  he 
tallied  against  his  countryman.  "  He  will  be  takin' 
his  quarther-brade  to  the  praste  before  the  boats  go 
out?" 

Leon  raised  fat  eyebrows.  "  Amable  Morin,  he 
no  fool.  It  is  six  daughters  he  has.  O  oui;  the 
marriage  is  soon  made." 

"  And  the  poor  haythen,  what  does  she  do  now  ?" 

"Blackbird?  She  watch  Jean  Magliss  dance. 
Then  she  leave  her  lodge  and  take  to  de  pine  wood. 
Blackbird  ver  fond  of  what  you  call  de  Irish." 

Owen  was  little  richer  in  the  gift  of  expression 
than  the  Indian  woman,  but  he  could  feel  the 
tragedy  of  her  unconfirmed  marriage.  A  squaw 
was  taken  to  her  lord's  wigwam,  and  remained  as 
long  as  she.  pleased  him.  He  could  divorce  her 
with  a  gift,  proportioned  to  his  means  and  her 
worth. 

42 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

When  Leon  Baudette  departed,  Owen  prepared 
and  ato  his  supper,  brewing  himself  some  herb  tea 
and  seasoning  it  with  a  drop  of  whiskey. 

The  evening  beauty  of  the  lake,  of  coasts  melting 
in  general  dimness,  and  that  iridescent  stony  hook 
stretched  out  from  Round  Island  to  grapple  passing 
craft,  was  lost  on  Owen.  Humid  air  did  not  soften 
the  glower  which  grew  and  hardened  on  his  visage 
as  he  made  his  preparations  for  night.  These  were 
very  simple.  The  coals  of  drift-wood  soon  died  to 
white  ashes  in  his  grate.  To  close  the  shop  was  to 
stand  upon  the  shoemaker's  bench  and  reach  for  the 
ladder  in  his  attic — a  short  ladder  that  just  per 
formed  its  office  and  could  be  hidden  aloft. 

Drawing  his  stairway  after  him  when  he  had  as 
cended,  Owen  spread  and  arranged  his  blankets. 
The  ghosts  that  rose  from  tortured  bodies  in  the 
Kitchen  below  never  worked  any  terror  in  his 
imagination  when  he  went  to  bed.  Rather,  he  lay 
stretched  in  his  hard  cradle  gloating  over  the  stars, 
his  wild  security,  the  thousand  night  aspects  of 
nature  which  he  could  make  part  of  himself  with 
out  expressing.  For  him  the  moon  cast  gorgeous 
bridges  on  the  water;  the  breathing  of  the  woods 
was  the  breathing  of  a  colossal  brother ;  and  when 
that  awful  chill  which  precedes  the  resurrection  of 
day  rose  from  the  earth  and  started  from  the  rock, 
he  turned  comfortably  in  his  thick  bedding  and 
taxed  sleepy  eyes  to  catch  the  wanness  coming  over 
the  lake. 

But  instead  of  lying  down  in  his  usual  peace 
43 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

when  the  nest  was  made  to  suit  him,  Owen  wheeled 
and  hung  undecided  legs  over  the  edge  of  his  loft. 
Then  he  again  put  down  the  ladder  and  descended. 
He  had  trod  the  three-quarters  of  a  mile  of  beach 
to  the  village  but  once  since  the  boats  came  in. 
Now  that  his  mind  was  fixed  he  took  to  it  again 

o 

with  a  loping  step,  bending  his  body  forward  and 
grasping  his  cap  to  butt  through  trailing  foliage. 

As  he  passed  the  point  and  neared  the  post,  its 
blare  and  hubbub  burst  on  him,  and  its  torch-light 
and  many  twinkling  candles.  He  proceeded  beside 
the  triple  row  of  Indian  lodges  which  occupied  the 
entire  water-front.  At  intervals,  on  the  very  verge, 
evening  fires  were  built,  throwing  streamers  of 
crimson  flicker  on  the  lake.  Naked  pappooses 
gathered  around  these  at  play.  But  on  an  open  flat 
betwixt  encampment  and  village  rose  a  lighted 
tabernacle  of  blankets  stretched  on  poles  and  up 
rights;  and  within  this  the  adult  Indians  were 
crowded,  celebrating  the  orgy  of  the  medicine-dance. 
Their  noise  kept  a  continuous  roll  of  echoes  moving 
across  the  islands. 

Owen  made  haste  to  pass  this  carnival  of  invocation 
and  plunge  into  the  swarming  main  street  of  Mack- 
inac,  where  a  thousand  voyageurs  roved,  ready  to 
embrace  any  man  and  call  him  brother  and  press 
him  to  drink  with  them.  Broad  low  houses  with 
huge  chimney-stacks  and  dormer-windows  stood 
open  and  hospitable;  for  Mackinac  was  en  fete 
while  the  fur  season  lasted.  One  huge  storage-room, 
a  wing  of  the  Fur  Company's  building,  was  lighted 

44 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

with  candles  around  the  sides  for  the  nightly  ball. 
Squared  dark  joists  of  timber  showed  overhead. 
The  fiddlers  sat  on  a  raised  platform,  playing  in 
ecstasy.  The  dark,  shining  floor  was  thronged  with 
dancers,  who,  before  primrose-color  entirely  with 
drew  from  evening  twilight,  had  rushed  to  their 
usual  amusement.  Half-breeds,  quarter-breeds,  six 
teenth-breeds,  Canadian  French,  Americans,  in 
finery  that  the  Northwest  was  able  to  command 
from  marts  of  the  world,  crossed,  joined  hands,  and 
whirled,  the  rhythmic  tread  of  feet  sounding  like 
the  beating  of  a  great  pulse.  The  doors  of  double 
timber  stood  open.  From  where  he  paused  outside, 
Owen  could  see  mighty  hinges  stretching  across  the 
whole  width  of  these  doors. 

And  he  could  see  John  McGillis  moving  among 
the  most  agile  dancers.  When  at  last  the  music 
stopped,  and  John  led  Amable  Morin's  girl  to  one 
of  the  benches  along  the  wall,  Owen  was  conscious 
that  an  Indian  woman  crossed  the  lighted  space 
behind  him,  and  he  turned  and  looked  full  at  Black 
bird,  and  she  looked  full  at  him.  But  she  did  not 
stay  to  be  included  in  the  greeting  of  John  McGil 
lis,  though  English  might  be  better  known  to  her 
than  Owen  had  supposed. 

John  came  heartily  to  the  door  and  endeavored 
to  pull  his  countryman  in.  He  was  a  much  younger 
man  than  Owen,  a  handsome,  light-haired  voyageur, 
with  thick  eyelids  and  cajoling  blue  eyes.  John 
was  the  only  Irish  engage  in  the  brigades.  The 
sweet  gift  of  blarney  dwelt  on  his  broad  red  lips. 

45 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

He  looked  too  amiable  and  easily  entreated,  too 
much  in  love  with  life,  indeed,  to  quarrel  with  any 
one.  Yet  as  Owen  answered  his  invitation  by  a 
quick  pass  that  struck  his  cheek,  his  color  mounted 
with  zest,  and  he  stepped  out,  turning  up  his  sleeves. 

"  Is  it  a  foight  ye  want,  ye  old  wizard  from  the 
Divil's  Kitchen?"  laughed  John,  still  good-natured. 
•  "It's  a  foight  I  want,"  responded  Owen.  "It's 
a  foight  I'm  shpilin'  for.  Come  out  forninst  the 
place,  where  the  shlobberin'  Frinch  can  lave  a  man 
be,  and  I'll  shpake  me  moind." 

John  walked  bareheaded  with  him,  and  they  pass 
ed  around  the  building  to  a  fence  enclosing  the  Fur 
Company's  silent  yard.  Stockades  of  sharp-pointed 
cedar  posts  outlined  gardens  near  them.  A  smell 
of  fur  mingled  with  odors  of  sweetbrier  and  loam. 
Again  the  violins  excited  that  throb  of  dancing  feet, 
and  John  McGillis  moved  his  arms  in  time  to  the 
music. 

"  Out  wid  it,  Owen.     I'm  losin'  me  shport." 

"  John  McGillis,  are  ye  not  own  cousin  to  me  by 
raisin  of  marryin'  on  as  fine  a  colleen  as  iver 
shtepped  in  Ireland?" 

"I  am,  Owen,  I  am." 

"  Did  ye  lave  that  same  in  sorrow,  consatin'  to 
fetch  her  out  to  Ameriky  whin  yer  fortune  was 
made?" 

« I  did,  Owen,  I  did." 

"  Whin  ye  got  word  of  her  death  last  year,  was  ye 
a  broken-hearted  widdy  or  was  ye  not?" 

"  I  was,  Owen,  I  was." 
46 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

"  John  McGillis,  do  ye  call  yerself  a  widdy  now, 
or  do  ye  not  call  yerself  a  widdy?" 

"I  do,  Owen,  I  do." 

"  Thin  ye' re  the  loire,"  and  Owen  slapped  his  face. 

For  a  minute  there  was  danger  of  manslaughter 
as  they  dealt  each  other  blows  with  sledge  fists.  In 
stead  of  clinching,  they  stood  apart  and  cudgelled 
fiercely  with  the  knuckled  hand.  The  first  round 
ended  in  blood,  which  John  wiped  from  his  face 
with  a  new  bandanna,  and  Owen  flung  contemptu 
ously  from  his  nose  with  finger  and  thumb.  The 
lax-muscled  cobbler  was  no  match  for  the  fresh  and 
vigorous  voyageur,  and  he  knew  it,  but  went 
stubbornly  to  work  again,  saying,  grimly: 

"  I've  shpiled  yer  face  for  the  gu'urls  the  night, 
bedad." 

They  pounded  each  other  without  mercy,  and 
again  rested,  Owen  this  time  leaning  against  the 
fence  to  breathe. 

"John  McGillis,  are  ye  a  widdy  or  are  ye  not  a 
widdy?"  he  challenged,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak. 

"  I  am,  Owen  Cunnin',  I  am,"  maintained  John. 

"Thin  I  repate  ye're  the  loire!"  And  once  more 
they  came  to  the  proof,  until  Owen  lay  upon  the 
ground  kicking  to  keep  his  opponent  off. 

"Will  I  bring  ye  the  dhrop  of  whiskey,  Owen?" 
suggested  John,  tenderly. 

His  cousin  by  marriage  crawled  to  the  fence  and 
sat  up,  without  replying. 

"I've  the  flask  in  me  pouch,  Owen." 

"  Kape  it  there." 

47 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

"  But  sure  if  ye  foight  wid  me  ye'll  dhrink  wid 
me?" 

"  I'll  not  dhrink  a  dhrop  wid  ye." 

The  cobbler  panted  heavily.  "  The  loikes  of  you 
that  do  be  goin'  to  marry  on  a  Frinch  quarther-brade, 
desavin'  her,  and  the  father  and  the  mother  and  the 
praste,  that  you  do  be  a  widdy." 

"  I  am  a  widdy,  Owen." 

The  cobbler  made  a  feint  to  rise,  but  sank  back, 
repeating,  at  the  top  of  his  breath,  "  Ye're  the  loire !" 

"What  do  ye  mane?"  sternly  demanded  John. 
"  Ye  know  I've  had  me  throuble.  Ye  know  I've 
lost  me  wife  in  the  old  counthry.  It's  a  year  gone. 
Was  the  praste  that  wrote  the  letther  a  loire  ?" 

"  I  have  a  towken  that  ye're  not  the  widdy  ye 
think  ye  are." 

John  came  to  Owen  and  stooped  over  him,  grasp 
ing  him  by  the  collar.  Candle-light  across  the 
street  and  stars  in  a  steel-blue  sky  did  not  reveal 
faces  distinctly,  but  his  shaking  of  the  cobbler  was 
an  outcome  of  his  own  inward  convulsion.  He  be 
longed  to  a  class  in  whom  memory  and  imagination 
were  not  strong,  being  continually  taxed  by  a  pres 
ent  of  large  action  crowded  with  changing  images. 
But  when  his  past  rose  up  it  took  entire  possession 
of  him. 

"  Why  didn't  ye  tell  me  this  before?" 

"  I've  not  knowed  it  the  long  time  meself ." 

"  What  towken  have  ye  got?" 

"  Towken  enough  for  you  and  me." 

"  Show  it  to  me." 

48 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

« I  will  not." 

"  Ye're  desavin'  me.     Ye  have  no  towken." 

"  Thin  marry  on  yer  quarther-brade  if  ye  dare!" 

To  be  unsettled  and  uninterested  in  his  surround 
ings  was  John  McGillis's  portion  during  the  remain 
ing  weeks  of  his  stay  on  the  island.  Half  savage 
and  half  tender  he  sat  in  his  barracks  and  smoked 
large  pipes  of  tobacco. 

He  tramped  out  nearly  every  evening  to  the 
Devil's  Kitchen,  and  had  wordy  battles,  which  a 
Frenchman  would  have  called  fights,  with  the 
cobbler,  though  the  conferences  always  ended  by 
his  producing  his  ration  and  supping  and  smoking 
there.  He  coaxed  his  cousin  to  show  him  the  token, 
vacillating  between  hope  of  impossible  news  from 
a  wife  he  had  every  reason  to  believe  dead,  and 
indignation  at  being  made  the  sport  of  Owen's 
stubbornness.  Learning  in  the  Fur  Company's 
office  that  Owen  had  received  news  from  the  old 
country  in  the  latest  mail  sent  out  of  New  York,  he 
was  beside  himself,  and  Amable  Morin's  girl  was 
forgotten.  He  began  to  believe  he  had  never 
thought  of  her. 

"  Sure,  the  old  man  Morin  and  me  had  some  words 
and  a  dhrink  over  it,  was  all.  I  did  but  dance  wid 
her  and  pinch  her  cheek.  A  man  niver  knows  what 
he  does  on  Mackinac  till  he  comes  to  himself  in  the 
winter  camps  wid  a  large  family  on  his  moind." 

"  The  blarney  of  your  lip  doesn't  desave  me,  John 
McGillis,"  responded  his  cousin  the  cobbler,  with 
grimness. 

D  49 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

"  But  whin  will  ye  give  me  the  word  you've  got, 
Owen?" 

"  I'll  not  give  it  to  ye  till  the  boats  go  out." 

"Will  ye  tell  me,  is  the  colleen  alive,  thin?" 

"  I've  tould  ye  ye're  not  a  widdy." 

"  If  the  colleen  is  alive,  the  towken  would  be  sint 
to  me." 

"Thin  ye've  got  it,"  said  Owen. 

Poor  John  smoked,  biting  hard  on  his  pipe-stem. 
Ignorance,  and  the  helplessness  of  a  limited  man 
who  is  more  a  good  animal  than  a  discerning  soul; 
time,  the  slow  transmission  of  news,  his  fixed  state 
as  a  voyageur — all  these  things  were  against  him. 
He  could  not  adjust  himself  to  any  facts,  and  his 
feelings  sometimes  approached  the  melting  state. 
It  was  no  use  to  war  with  Owen  Cunning,  whom  he 
was  ashamed  of  handling  roughly.  The  cobbler 
sat  with  swollen  and  bandaged  face,  talking  out  of 
a  slit,  still  bullying  him. 

But  the  time  came  for  his  brigade  to  go  out,  and 
then  there  was  action,  decision,  positive  life  once 
more.  It  went  far  northward,  and  was  first  to 
depart,  in  order  to  reach  winter-quarters  before  snow 
should  fly. 

At  the  log  dock  the  boats  waited,  twelve  of  them 
in  this  outfit,  each  one  a  mighty  Argo,  rowed  by  a 
dozen  pairs  of  oars,  and  with  centre-piece  for  step 
ping  a  mast.  Hundreds  of  pounds  they  could  carry, 
and  a  crew  of  fifteen  men.  The  tarpaulin  used  for 
a  night  covering  and  to  shelter  the  trading-goods 
from  storms  was  large  as  the  roof  of  a  house. 

50 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

Quiescent  on  lapping  water  they  rested,  their  loads 
and  each  man's  baggage  of  twenty  or  fewer  pounds 
packed  tightly  to  place. 

The  cobbler  from  the  Devil's  Kitchen  was  in  the 
crowd  thronging  dock  and  shore.  The  villagers 
were  there,  saying  farewells,  and  all  the  voyageurs 
who  were  soon  to  go  out  in  other  brigades  snuffed 
as  war-horses  ready  for  the  charge.  The  life  of  the 
woods,  which  was  their  true  life,  again  drew  them. 
They  could  scarcely  wait.  Dancing  and  love-making 
suddenly  cloyed;  for  a  man  was  made  to  conquer 
the  wilderness  and  take  the  spoils  of  the  earth. 
"Woodsman's  habits  returned  upon  them.  The  frip 
pery  of  the  island  was  dropped  like  the  withes 
which  bound  Samson.  Their  companions  the  Ind 
ians  were  also  making  ready  the  canoes.  Black 
bird  stood  erect  behind  the  elbow  of  John  McGillis 
as  he  took  leave  of  his  cousin  the  cobbler. 

"Do  ye  moind,  Owen,"  exclaimed  John,  turning 
from  the  interests  of  active  life  to  that  which  had 
disturbed  his  spirit,  convinced  unalterably  of  his 
own  widowed  state,  yet  harrowed  unspeakably,  "ye 
promised  to  show  me  that  word  from  the  old 
counthry  before  the  boats  wint  out." 

"  I  niver  promised  to  show  ye  any  word  from  the 
old  counthry,"  responded  Owen,  having  his  mouth 
free  of  bandages  and  both  eyes  for  the  boats. 

"Ye  tould  me  ye  had  a  towken  from  the  old 
counthry." 

"  I  niver  tould  ye  I  had  a  towken  from  the  old 
counthry." 

51 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 

"  Ye  did  tell  me  ye  had  a  towken." 

"I  have." 

"  Ye  said  it  proved  I  was  not  a  widdy." 

"I  did." 

"  Show  me  that  same,  thin." 

"  I  will." 

Owen  looked  steadily  past  John's  shoulder  at 
Blackbird,  and  laid  in  John's  hand  a  small  gold  coin 
with  a  hole  in  it,  on  one  side  of  which  was  rudely 
scratched  the  outline  of  a  bird. 

John  McG-illis's  face  burned  red,  and  many  ex 
pressions  besides  laughter  crossed  it.  Like  a  child 
detected  in  fault,  he  looked  sheepishly  at  Owen  and 
glanced  behind  his  shoulder.  The  faithful  sunset- 
tinted  face  of  Blackbird,  immovable  as  a  fixed  star, 
regarded  the  battered  cobbler  as  it  might  have 
regarded  a  great  manitou  when  the  island  was 
young. 

"How  did  you  come  by  this,  Owen?" 

"  I  come  by  it  from  one  that  had  throuble.  Has 
yerself  iver  seen  it  before,  John  McGillis  ?" 

"  I  have." 

"  Is  it  a  towken  that  ye're  not  a  widdy?" 

« It  is." 

The  boats  went  out,  and  Blackbird  sat  in  her  Irish 
husband's  boat,  on  his  baggage.  Oars  flashed,  and 
the  commandant's  boat  led  the  way.  Then  the  life 
of  the  Northwest  rose  like  a  great  wave — the 
voyageurs'  song  chanted  by  a  hundred  and  fifty 
throats,  with  a  chorus  of  thousands  on  the  shore : 

52 


COBBLER    IN    THE    DEVIL'S    KITCHEN 


[X         /J L I      I  I 


Dans    les    chan  -  tiers  nous  hi  -  ver  -  ne  -  rons ! 

i N- 


Dans    les    chan  -  tiers  nous  hi  -  ver  -    ne  -  rons ! 


"When  Owen  returned  to  his  Kitchen  he  found  a 
robe  of  the  finest  beaver  folded  and  laid  on  his 
shoemaker's  bench. 

"Begorra!"  observed  the  cobbler,  shaking  it  out 
and  rubbing  it  against  his  cheek,  "  she  has  paid  me 
a  beaver-shkin  and  the  spalpeen  wasn't  worrth  it. 
But  she  can  kape  him  now  till  she  has  a  moind  to 
turn  him  out  herself.  Whin  a  man  marries  on  a 
haythen,  wid  praste  or  widout  praste,  let  him  shtick 
to  his  haythen." 


THE  SKELETON   ON  BOUND 
ISLAND 


On  the  15th  day  of  March,  1897,  Ignace  Pelott  died  at  Mack- 
inac  Island,  aged  ninety-three  years. 

The  old  quarter-breed,  son  of  a  half-breed  Chippewa  mother  and 
French  father,  took  with  him  into  silence  much  wilderness  lore  of 
the  Northwest.  He  was  full  of  stories  when  warmed  to  recital, 
though  at  the  beginning  of  a  talk  his  gentle  eyes  dwelt  on  the  listener 
with  anxiety,  and  he  tapped  his  forehead — "  So  many  things  gone 
from  there!"  His  habit  of  saying  "  Oh  God,  yes,"  or  "  Oh  God, 
710,"  was  not  in  the  least  irreverent,  but  simply  his  mild  way  of 
using  island  English. 

While  water  lapped  the  beach  before  his  door  and  the  sun  smote 
sparkles  on  the  strait,  he  told  about  this  adventure  across  the  ice, 
and  his  hearer  has  taken  but  few  liberties  with  the  recital. 

I  AM  to  carry  Mamselle  Rosalin  of  Green  Bay 
from  Mackinac  to  Cheboygan  that  time,  and 
it  is  the  end  of  March,  and  the  wind  have  turn 
from  east  to  west  in  the  morning.     A  man  will  go 
out  with  the  wind  in  the  east,  to  haul  wood  from 
Boblo,  or  cut  a  hole  to  fish,  and  by  night  he  cannot 
get  home — ice,  it  is  rotten;  it  goes  to  pieces  quick 
when  the  March  wind  turns. 

I  am  not  afraid  for  me — long,  tall  fellow  then; 
eye  that  can  see  to  Point  aux  Pins ;  I  can  lift  more 

54 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

than  any  other  man  that  goes  in  the  boats  to  Green 
Bay  or  the  Soo;  can  swim,  run  on  snow-shoes,  go 
without  eating  two,  three  days,  and  draw  my  belt 
in.  Sometimes  the  ice-floes  carry  me  miles,  for  they 
all  go  east  down  the  lakes  when  they  start,  and  I 
have  landed  the  other  side  of  Drummond.  But 
when  you  have  a  woman  with  you — Oh  God,  yes, 
that  is  different. 

The*  way  of  it  is  this :  I  have  brought  the  mail 
from  St.  Ignace  with  my  traino  —  you  know  the 
train-au-galise — the  birch  sledge  with  dogs.  It  is 
flat,  and  turn  up  at  the  front  like  a  toboggan.  And 
I  have  take  the  traino  because  it  is  not  safe  for  a 
horse ;  the  wind  is  in  the  west,  and  the  strait  bends 
and  looks  too  sleek.  Ice  a  couple  of  inches  thick  will 
bear  up  a  man  and  dogs.  But  this  old  ice  a  foot 
thick,  it  is  turning  rotten.  I  have  come  from  St. 
Ignace  early  in  the  afternoon,  and  the  people  crowd 
about  to  get  their  letters,  and  there  is  Mamselle 
Rosalin  crying  to  go  to  Cheboygan,  because  her 
lady  has  arrive  there  sick,  and  has  sent  the  letter  a 
week  ago.  Her  friends  say: 

"It  is  too  late  to  go  to-day,  and  the  strait  is 
dangerous." 

She  say :  "  I  make  a  bundle  and  walk.  I  must 
go  when  my  lady  is  sick  and  her  husband  the  lieu 
tenant  is  away,  and  she  has  need  of  me." 

Mamselle's  friends  talk  and  she  cry.  She  runs 
and  makes  a  little  bundle  in  the  house  and  comes 
out  ready  to  walk  to  Cheboygan.  There  is  nobody 
can  prevent  her.  Some  island  people  are  descend 

55 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

from  noblesse  of  France.  But  none  of  them  have 
travel  like  Mamselle  Eosalin  with  the  officer's  wife 
to  Indiana,  to  Chicago,  to  Detroit.  She  is  like  me, 
French.*  The  girls  use  to  turn  their  heads  to  see 
me  walk  in  to  mass;  but  I  never  look  grand  as 
Mamselle  Eosalin  when  she  step  out  to  that  ice. 

I  have  not  a  bit  of  sense;  I  forget  maman  and 
my  brothers  and  sisters  that  depend  on  me.  I  run 
to  Mamselle  Rosalin,  take  off  my  cap,  and  bow  from 
my  head  to  my  heel,  like  you  do  in  the  dance.  I 
will  take  her  to  Cheboygan  with  my  traino — Oh 
God,  yes!  And  I  laugh  at  the  wet  track  the  sledge 
make,  and  pat  my  dogs  and  tell  them  they  are  not 
tired.  I  wrap  her  up  in  the  fur,  and  she  thank  me 
and  tremble,  and  look  me  through  with  her  big  black 
eyes  so  that  I  am  ready  to  go  down  in  the  strait. 

The  people  on  the  shore  hurrah,  though  some  of 
them  cry  out  to  warn  us. 

"  The  ice  is  cracked  from  Mission  Point  to  the 
hook  of  Bound  Island,  Ignace  Pelott !" 

"I  know  that,"  I  say.     "Good-day,  messieurs!" 

The  crack  from  Mission  Point — under  what  you 
call  Robinson's  Folly — to  the  hook  of  Round  Island 
always  comes  first  in  a  breaking  up ;  and  I  hold  my 
breath  in  my  teeth  as  I  skurry  the  dogs  across  it. 
The  ice  grinds,  the  water  follows  the  sledge.  But 
the  sun  is  so  far  down  in  the  southwest,  I  think 
"  The  wind  will  grow  colder.  The  real  thaw  will 
not  come  before  to-morrow." 


The  6ld  fellow  would  not  own  the  Chippewa. 
56 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

I  am  to  steer  betwixt  the  east  side  of  Kound 
Island  and  Boblo.  When  we  come  into  the  shadow 
of  Boblo  we  are  chill  with  damp,  far  worse  than 
the  clear  sharp  air  that  blows  from  Canada.  I  lope 
beside  the  traino,  and  not  take  my  eyes  off  the 
course  to  Cheboygan,  except  that  I  see  the  islands 
look  blue,  and  darkness  stretching  before  its  time. 
The  sweat  drop  off  my  face,  yet  I  feel  that  wind 
through  my  wool  clothes,  and  am  glad  of  the  shelter 
between  Boblo  and  Round  Island,  for  the  strait 
outside  will  be  the  worst. 

There  is  an  Indian  bury  ing-ground  on  open  land 
above  the  beach  on  that  side  of  Round  Island.  I 
look  up  when  the  thick  woods  are  pass,  for  the  sun 
set  ought  to  show  there.  But  what  I  see  is  a  skele 
ton  like  it  is  sliding  down  hill  from  the  graveyard 
to  the  beach.  It  does  not  move.  The  earth  is  wash 
from  it,  and  it  hangs  staring  at  me. 

I  cannot  tell  how  that  make  me  feel!  I  laugh, 
for  it  is  funny ;  but  I  am  ashame,  like  my  father  is 
expose  and  Mamselle  Rosalin  can  see  him.  If  I  do 
not  cover  him  again  I  am  disgrace.  I  think  I  will 
wait  till  some  other  day  when  I  can  get  back  from 
Chebo}7gan;  for  what  will  she  say  if  I  stop  the 
traino  when  we  have  such  a  long  journey,  and  it  is 
so  near  night,  and  the  strait  almost  ready  to  move? 
So  I  crack  the  whip,  but  something  pull,  pull!  I 
cannot  go  on !  I  say  to  myself,  "  The  ground  is 
froze;  how  can  I  cover  up  that  skeleton  without 
any  shovel,  or  even  a  hatchet  to  break  the  earth?" 

But  something  pull,  pull,  so  I  am  oblige  to  stop, 
57 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

and  the  dogs  turn  in  without  one  word  and  drag 
the  sledge  up  the  beach  of  Round  Island. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  says  Mamselle  Rosalin. 
She  is  out  of  the  sledge  as  soon  as  it  stops. 

I  not  know  what  to  answer,  but  tell  her  I  have 
to  cut  a  stick  to  mend  my  whip-handle.  I  think  I 
will  -cut  a  stick  and  rake  some  earth  over  the  skele 
ton  to  cover  it,  and  come  another  day  with  a  shovel 
and  dig  a  new  grave.  The  dogs  lie  down  and  pant, 
and  she  looks  through  me  with  her  big  eyes  like 
she  beg  me  to  hurry. 

But  there  is  no  danger  she  will  see  the  skeleton. 
We  both  look  back  to  Mackinac.  The  island  have 
its  hump  up  against  the  north,  and  the  village  in  its 
lap  around  the  bay,  and  the  Mission  eastward  near 
the  cliff;  but  all  seem  to  be  moving !  We  run  along 
the  beach  of  Hound  Island,  and  then  we  see  the 
channel  between  that  and  Boblo  is  moving  too,  and 
the  ice  is  like  wet  loaf-sugar,  grinding  as  it  floats. 

We  hear  some  roars  away  off,  like  cannon  when 
the  Americans  come  to  the  island.  My  head  swims. 
I  cross  myself  and  know  why  something  pull,  pull, 
to  make  me  bring  the  traino  to  the  beach,  and  I  am 
oblige  to  that  skeleton  who  slide  down  hill  to  warn 
me. 

When  we  have  seen  Mackinac,  we  walk  to  the 
other  side  and  look  south  and  southeast  towards 
Cheboygan.  All  is  the  same.  The  ice  is  moving 
out  of  the  strait. 

"We  are  strand  on  this  island!"  says  Mamselle 
Bosalin.  "  Oh,  what  shall  we  do?" 

58 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

I  tell  her  it  is  better  to  be  prisoners  on  Round 
Island  than  on  a  cake  of  ice  in  the  strait,  for  I  have 
tried  the  cake  of  ice  and  know. 

"  We  will  camp  and  build  a  fire  in  the  cove 
opposite  Mackinac,"  I  say.  "Maman  and  the 
children  will  see  the  light  and  feel  sure  we  are 
safe." 

"  I  have  done  wrong,"  says  she.  "  If  you  lose 
your  life  on  this  journey,  it  is  my  fault." 

Oh  God,  no!  I  tell  her.  She  is  not  to  blame  for 
anything,  and  there  is  no  danger.  I  have  float 
many  a  time  when  the  strait  breaks  up,  and  not  save 
my  hide  so  dry  as  it  is  now.  We  only  have  to  stay 
on  Round  Island  till  we  can  get  off. 

"And  how  long  will  that  be?"  she  ask. 

I  shrug  my  shoulders.  There  is  no  telling.  Some 
times  the  strait  clears  very  soon,  sometimes  not. 
Maybe  two,  three  days. 

Rosalin  sit  down  on  a  stone. 

I  tell  her  we  can  make  camp,  and  show  signals  to 
Mackinac,  and  when  the  ice  permit,  a  boat  will  be 
sent. 

She  is  crying,  and  I  say  her  lady  will  be  well. 
No  use  to  go  to  Cheboygan  anyhow,  for  it  is  a  week 
since  her  lady  sent  for  her.  But  she  cry  on,  and  I 
think  she  wish  I  leave  her  alone,  so  I  say  I  will  get 
wood.  And  I  unharness  the  dogs,  and  run  along 
the  beach  to  cover  that  skeleton  before  dark.  I  look 
and  cannot  find  him  at  all.  Then  I  go  up  to  the 
graveyard  and  look  down.  There  is  no  skeleton 
anywhere.  I  have  seen  his  skull  and  his  ribs  and 

59 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

his  arms  and  legs,  all  sliding  down  hill.  But  he  is 
gone ! 

The  dusk  close  in  upon  the  islands,  and  I  not  know 
what  to  think — cross  myself,  two,  three  times ;  and 
wish  we  had  land  on  Boblo  instead  of  Kound  Island, 
though  there  are  wild  beasts  on  both. 

But  there  is  no  time  to  be  scare  at  skeletons  that 
slide  down  and  disappear,  for  Mamselle  Rosalin 
must  have  her  camp  and  her  place  to  sleep.  Every 
man  use  to  the  bateaux  have  always  his  tinder-box, 
his  knife,  his  tobacco,  but  I  have  more  than  that; 
I  have  leave  Macldnac  so  quick  I  forget  to  take  out 
the  storekeeper's  bacon  that  line  the  bottom  of  the 
sledge,  and  Mamselle  Rosalin  sit  on  it  in  the  furs! 
We  have  plenty  meat,  and  I  sing  like  a  voyageur 
while  I  build  the  fire.  Drift,  so  dry  in  summer  you 
can  light  it  with  a  coal  from  your  pipe,  lay  on  the 
beach,  but  is  now  winter-soaked,  and  I  make  a  fire 
place  of  logs,  and  cut  pine  branches  to  help  it. 

It  is  all  thick  woods  on  Round  Island,  so  close  it 
tear  you  to  pieces  if  you  try  to  break  through ;  only 
four-footed  things  can  crawl  there.  When  the  fire 
is  blazing  up  I  take  my  knife  and  cut  a  tunnel  like 
a  little  room,  and  pile  plenty  evergreen  branches. 
This  is  to  shelter  Mamselle  Rosalin,  for  the  night  is 
so  raw  she  shiver.  Our  tent  is  the  sky,  darkness, 
and  clouds.  But  I  am  happy.  I  unload  the  sledge. 
The  bacon  is  wet.  On  long  sticks  the  slices  sizzle 
and  sing  while  I  toast  them,  and  the  dogs  come  close 
and  blink  by  the  fire,  and  lick  their  chops.  Rosalin 
laugh  and  I  laugh,  for  it  smell  like  a  good  kitchen; 

60 


I  THINK  THE  CAMP  GO  AROUND  AND  AROUND  ME 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

and  we  sit  and  eat  nothing  but  toasted  meat — better 
than  lye  corn  and  tallow  that  you  have  when  you 
go  out  with  the  boats.  Then  I  feed  the  dogs,  and 
she  walk  with  me  to  the  water  edge,  and  we  drink 
with  our  hands. 

It  is  my  house,  when  we  sit  on  the  fur  by  the  fire. 
I  am  so  light  I  want  my  fiddle.  I  wish  it  last  like 
a  dream  that  Mamselle  Rosalin  and  me  keep  house 
together  on  Round  Island.  You  not  want  to  go  to 
heaven  when  the  one  you  think  about  all  the  time 
stays  close  by  you. 

But  pretty  soon  I  want  to  go  to  heaven  quick. 
I  think  I  jump  in  the  lake  if  maman  and  the  chil 
dren  had  anybody  but  me.  When  I  light  my  pipe 
she  smile.  Then  her  great  big  eyes  look  off  towards 
Mackinac,  and  I  turn  and  see  the  little  far-away 
lights. 

"  They  know  we  are  on  Round  Island  together," 
I  say  to  cheer  her,  and  she  move  to  the  edge  of  the 
fur.  Then  she  say  "  Good-night,"  and  get  up  and 
go  to  her  tunnel-house  in  the  bushes,  and  I  jump  up 
too,  and  spread  the  fur  there  for  her.  And  I  not 
get  back  to  the  fire  before  she  make  a  door  of  all 
the  branches  I  have  cut,  and  is  hid  like  a  squirrel. 
I  feel  I  dance  for  joy  because  she  is  in  my  camp  for 
me  to  guard.  But  what  is  that?  It  is  a  woman 
that  cry  out  loud  by  herself!  I  understand  now 
why  she  sit  down  so  hopeless  when  we  first  land. 
I  have  not  know  much  about  women,  but  I  under 
stand  how  she  feel.  It  is  not  her  lady,  or  the  dark, 
or  the  ice  break  up,  or  the  cold.  It  is  not  Ignace 

61 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

Pelott.  It  is  the  name  of  being  prison  on  Kound 
Island  with  a  man  till  the  ice  is  out  of  the  straits. 
She  is  so  shame  she  want  to  die.  I  think  I  will  kill 
myself.  If  Mamselle  Rosalin  cry  out  loud  once 
more,  I  plunge  in  the  lake — and  then  what  become 
of  maman  and  the  children  ? 

She  is  quieter ;  and  I  sit  down  and  cannot  smoke, 
and  the  dogs  pity  me.  Old  Sauvage  lay  his  nose 
on  my  knee.  I  do  not  say  a  word  to  him,  but  I  pat 
him,  and  we  talk  with  our  eyes,  and  the  bright  camp- 
fire  shows  each  what  the  other  is  say. 

"  Old  Sauvage,"  I  tell  him,u  I  am  not  good  man 
like  the  priest.  I  have  been  out  with  the  boats, 
and  in  Indian  camps,  and  I  not  had  in  my  life  a 
chance  to  marry,  because  there  are  maman  and  the 
children.  But  you  know,  old  Sauvage,  how  I  have 
feel  about  Mamselle  Rosalin,  it  is  three  years." 

Old  Sauvage  hit  his  tail  on  the  ground  and  an 
swer  he  know. 

"  I  have  love  her  like  a  dog  that  not  dare  to  lick 
her  hand.  And  now  she  hate  me  because  I  am  shut 
on  Round  Island  with  her  while  the  ice  goes  out. 
I  not  good  man,  but  it  pretty  tough  to  stand  that." 
Old  Sauvage  hit  his  tail  on  the  ground  and  say, 
"  That  so."  I  hear  the  water  on  the  gravel  like  it 
sound  when  we  find  a  place  to  drink j  then  it  is 
plenty  company,  but  now  it  is  lonesome.  The  water 
say  to  people  on  Mackinac,  "Rosalin  and  Ignace 
Pelott,  they  are  on  Round  Island."  What  make 
you  proud,  maybe,  when  you  turn  it  and  look  at  it 
the  other  way,  make  you  sick.  But  I  cannot  walk 

62 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

the  broken  ice,  and  if  I  could,  she  would  be  lef  alone 
with  the  dogs.  I  think  I  will  build  another  camp. 

But  soon  there  is  a  shaking  in  the  bushes,  and 
Sauvage  and  his  sledgemates  bristle  and  stand  up 
and  show  their  teeth.  Out  conies  Mamselle  Eosalin 
with  a  scream  to  the  other  side  of  the  fire. 

I  have  nothing  except  my  knife,  and  I  take  a 
chunk  of  burning  wood  and  go  into  her  house. 
Maybe  I  see  some  green  eyes.  I  have  handle  vild- 
cat  skin  too  much  not  to  know  that  smell  in  the 
dark. 

I  take  all  the  branches  from  Eosalin's  house  and 
pile  them  by  the  fire,  and  spread  the  fur  robe  on 
them.  And  I  pull  out  red  coals  and  put  more  logs 
on  before  I  sit  down  away  off  between  her  and  the 
spot  where  she  hear  that  noise.  If  the  graveyard 
was  over  us,  I  would  expect  to  see  that  skeleton 
once  more. 

"  What  was  it?"  she  whisper. 

I  tell  her  maybe  a  stray  wolf. 

"Wolves  not  eat  people,  mamselle,  unless  they 
hunt  in  a  pack  ;  and  they  run  from  fire.  You  know 
what  M'sieu'  Cable  tell  about  wolves  that  chase  him 
on  the  ice  when  he  skate  to  Cheboygan?  He  come 
to  great  wide  crack  in  ice,  he  so  scare  he  jump  it 
and  skate  right  on !  Then  he  look  back,  and  see 
the  wolves  go  in,  head  down,  every  wolf  caught  and 
drown  in  the  crack.  It  is  two  days  before  he  come 
home,  and  the  east  wind  have  blow  to  freeze  that 
crack  over — and  there  are  all  the  wolf  tails,  stick  up, 
froze  stiff  in  a  row !  He  bring  them  home  with  him 

63 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

—but  los  them  on  the  way,  though  he  show  the 
knife  that  cut  them  off!" 

"  I  have  hear  that,"  says  Kosalin.  "  I  think  he 
lie." 

"  He  say  he  take  his  oat  on  a  book,"  I  tell  her,  but 
we  both  laugh,  and  she  is  curl  down  so  close  to  the 
fire  her  cheeks  turn  rosy.  For  a  camp-fire  will  heat 
the  air  all  around  until  the  world  is  like  a  big  dark 
room;  and  we  are  shelter  from  the  wind.  I  am 
glad  she  is  begin  to  enjoy  herself.  And  all  the  time 
I  have  a  hand  on  my  knife,  and  the  cold  chills  down 
my  back  where  that  hungry  vild-cat  will  set  his 
claws  if  he  jump  on  me;  and  I  cannot  turn  around 
to  face  him  because  Rosalin  thinks  it  is  nothing  but 
a  cowardly  wolf  that  sneak  away.  Old  Sauvage  is 
uneasy  and  come  to  me,  his  fangs  all  expose,  but  I 
drive  him  back  and  listen  to  the  bushes  behind  me. 

"  Sing,  M'sieu'  Pelott,"  says  Rosalin. 

Oh  God,  yes!  it  is  easy  to  sing  with  a  vild-cat 
watch  you  on  one  side  and  a  woman  on  the  other ! 

"  But  I  not  know  anything  except  boat  songs." 

"  Sing  boat  songs." 

So  I  sing  like  a  bateau  full  of  voyageurs,  and 
the  dark  echo,  and  that  vild-cat  must  be  astonish. 
When  you  not  care  what  become  of  you,  and  your 
head  is  light  and  your  heart  like  a  stone  on  the  beach, 
you  not  mind  vild-cats,  but  sing  and  laugh. 

I  cast  my  eye  behin  sometimes,  and  feel  my  knife. 
It  make  me  smile  to  think  what  kind  of  creature 
come  to  my  house  in  the  wilderness,  and  I  say  to 
myself :  "  Hear  my  cat  purr !  This  is  the  only  time 

64 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

I  will  ever  have  a  home  of  my  own,  and  the  only 
time  the  woman  I  want  sit  beside  my  fire." 

Then  I  ask  Rosalin  to  sing  to  me,  and  she  sing 
"  Malbrouck,"  like  her  father  learn  it  in  Kebec.  She 
watch  me,  and  I  know  her  eyes  have  more  danger 
for  me  than  the  vild-cat's.  It  ought  to  tear  me  to 
pieces  if  I  forget  maman  and  the  children.  It  ought 
to  be  scare  out  the  bushes  to  jump  on  a  poor  fool 
like  me.  But  I  not  stop  entertain  it — Oh  God,  no! 
I  say  things  that  I  never  intend  to  say,  like  they 
are  pull  out  of  my  mouth.  When  your  heart  has 
ache,  sometimes  it  break  up  quick  like  the  ice. 

"  There  is  Paul  Pepin,"  I  tell  her.  "  He  is  a  happy 
man;  he  not  trouble  himself  with  anybody  at  all. 
His  father  die ;  he  let  his  mother  take  care  of  her 
self.  He  marry  a  wife,  and  get  tired  of  her  and  turn 
her  off  with  two  children.  The  priest  not  able  to 
scare  him;  he  smoke  and  take  his  dram  and  enjoy 
life.  If  I  was  Paul  Pepin  I  would  not  be  torment." 
"  But  you  are  not  torment,"  says  Rosalin.  "  Every 
body  speak  well  of  you." 

"Oh  God,  yes,"  I  tell  her;  "but  a  man  not  live 
on  the  breath  of  his  neighbors.  I  am  thirty  years 
old,  and  I  have  take  care  of  my  mother  and  brothers 
and  sisters  since  I  am  fifteen.  I  not  made  so  I  can 
leave  them,  like  Paul  Pepin.  He  marry  when  he 
please.  I  not  able  to  marry  at  all.  It  is  not  far  I 
can  go  from  the  island.  I  cannot  get  rich.  My 
work  must  be  always  the  same." 

"  But  why  you  want  to  marry  ?"  says  Rosalin,  as 
if  that  surprise  her.  And  I  tell  her  it  is  because  I 
E  65 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

have  seen  Eosalin  of  Green  Bay;  and  she  laugh. 
Then  I  think  it  is  time  for  the  vild-cat  to  jump.  I 
am  thirty  years  old,  and  have  nothing  but  what  I 
can  make  with  the  boats  or  my  traino;  the  chil 
dren  are  not  grown;  my  mother  depend  on  me; 
and  I  have  propose  to  a  woman,  and  she  laugh 
at  me! 

Bat  I  not  see,  while  we  sing  and  talk,  that  the 
fire  is  burn  lower,  and  old  Sauvage  has  crept  around 
the  camp  into  the  bushes. 

That  end  all  my  courtship.  I  not  use  to  it,  and 
not  have  any  business  to  court,  anyhow.  I  drop 
my  head  on  my  breast,  and  it  is  like  when  I  am  little 
and  the  measle  go  in.  Paul  Pepin  he  take  a  woman 
by  the  chin  and  smack  her  on  the  lips..  The  women 
not  laugh  at  him,  he  is  so  rough.  I  am  as  strong 
as  he  is,  but  I  am  afraid  to  hurt ;  I  am  oblige  to 
take  care  of  what  need  me.  And  I  am  tie  to  things 
I  love  —  even  the  island  —  so  that  I  cannot  get 
away. 

"  I  not  want  to  marry,"  says  Kosalin,  and  I  see 
her  shake  her  head  at  me.  "  I  not  think  about  it  at 
all." 

"  Mamselle,"  I  say  to  her,  "  you  have  not  any 
inducement  like  I  have,  that  torment  }^ou  three 
years." 

"How  you  know  that?"  she  ask  me.  And  then 
her  face  change  from  laughter,  and  she  spring  up 
from  the  blanket  couch,  and  I  think  the  camp  go 
around  and  around  me — all  fur  and  eyes  and  claws 
and  teeth — and  I  not  know  what  I  am  doing,  for 

66 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

the  dogs  are  all  over  me — yell — yell — yell;  and  then 
I  am  stop  stabbing,  because  the  vild-cat  has  let  go 
of  Sauvage,  and  Sauvage  has  let  go  of  the  vild-cat, 
and  I  am  looking  at  them  and  know  they  are  both 
dead,  and  I  cannot  help  him  any  more. 

You  are  confuse  by  such  things  where  there  is 
noise,  and  howling  creatures  sit  up  and  put  their 
noses  in  the  air,  like  they  call  their  mate  back  out 
of  the  dark.  I  am  sick  for  my  old  dog.  Then  I  am 
proud  he  has  kill  it,  and  wipe  my  knife  on  its  fur, 
but  feel  ashame  that  I  have  not  check  him  driving- 
it  into  camp.  And  then  Eosalin  throw  her  arms 
around  my  neck  and  kiss  me. 

It  is  many  years  I  have  tell  Eosalin  she  did  that. 
But  a  woman  will  deny  what  she  know  to  be  the 
trut.  I  have  tell  her  the  courtship  had  end,  and 
she  begin  it  again  herself,  and  keep  it  up  till  the  boats 
take  us  off  Round  Island.  The  ice  not  run  out  so 
quick  any  more  now  like  it  did  then.  My  wife  say 
it  is  a  long  time  we  waited,  but  when  I  look  back 
it  seem  the  shortest  time  I  ever  live — only  two 
days. 

Oh  God,  yes,  it  is  three  years  before  I  marry  the 
woman  that  not  want  to  marry  at  all;  then  my 
brothers  and  sisters  can  take  care  of  themselves, 
and  she  help  me  take  care  of  maman. 

It  is  when  my  boy  Gabriel  come  home  from  the 
war  to  die  that  I  see  the  skeleton  on  Round  Island 
again.  I  am  again  sure  it  is  wash  out,  and  I  go 
ashore  to  bury  it,  and  it  disappear.  Nobody  but 
me  see  it.  Then  before  Rosalin  die  I  am  out  on  the 

67 


THE    SKELETON    ON    ROUND    ISLAND 

ice-boat,  and  it  give  me  warning.  I  know  what  it 
mean;  but  you  cannot  always  escape  misfortune. 
I  cross  myself  when  I  see  it;  but  I  find  good  luck 
that  first  time  I  land;  and  maybe  I  find  good  luck 
every  time,  after  I  have  land. 


THE  PENITENT  OF  CROSS 
VILLAGE 


THE  cross  cast  its  shadow  around  its  feet,  so 
high  noon  stood  over  Cross  Tillage.  It  was 
behind  the  church,  rising  above  the  gable, 
of  silver -colored  wood  stained  by  weather  to  an 
almost  phosphorescent  glint.  Seen  from  the  lake 
the  cross  towered  the  most  conspicuous  thing  on  the 
bluff.  A  whitewashed  fence  stretched  between  it 
and  the  cliff,  and  on  this  fence  sat  Moses  Nazage- 
bic,  looking  across  Lake  Michigan. 

He  heard  a  soft  tap  on  the  ground  near  him  and 
knew  that  his  wife's  grandmother  had  come  out  to 
walk  there.  She  was  the  only  villager,  except  his 
wife,  whose  approach  he  could  endure.  His  wife 
stood  some  distance  apart,  protecting  him,  as 
Miriam  protected  the  first  Moses.  Other  women, 
gathered  in  the  grove  along  the  bluff  to  spread  the 
festival  mid-day  meal,  said  to  one  another: 

"Moses  has  now  mourned  a  week  for  Frank 
Chibam  and  his  shipwrecked  boat  and  the  white 
men.  We  shall  miss  Lucy's  fish-pie  this  year." 

"  It  was  at  last  year's  festival  that  Frank  began 
69 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

to  notice  Catharine.  They  were  like  one  family, 
those  four  and  the  grandmother,  especially  after 
Moses  and  Frank  bought  the  sail -boat  together. 
No  wonder  the  poor  fellow  sits  on  the  fence  and 
says  nothing  while  the  tribes  are  racing  horses." 

"  But  it  is  worst  for  poor  Catharine,  who  was  to 
have  been  a  bride.  See  her  sit  like  a  stone  in  the 
sun !  It  is  little  any  one  can  say  to  comfort  Cath 
arine." 

The  women,  who  knew  no  English,  used  soft 
Chippewa  or  Ottawa  gutturals.  The  men  who 
ventured  on  the  conquerors'  language  used  it  shorn 
and  contracted,  as  white  children  do. 

The  annual  festivities  of  the  Cross  Village  were 
at  their  height.  Yells  and  the  tumultuous  patter 
of  racing  hoofs  fell  on  Moses'  ear.  A  trial  of 
horse  speed  was  now  in  progress;  and  later  in  the 
day  would  come  a  trial  of  agility  and  endurance  in 
the  Ottawa  and  Chippewa  dances.  The  race-course 
was  the  mile-long  street,  beginning  at  the  old  chapel 
and  ending  at  the  monastery.  Young  Indians, 
vividly  clad  in  red  calico  shirts  and  fringed  leg 
gings,  leaned  over  their  horses'  necks,  whipping 
and  shouting.  Dust  rose  behind  the  flying  caval 
cade,  and  spectators  were  obliged  to  keep  close  to 
the  small  carved  houses  or  risk  being  run  down. 
Young  braves  denied  the  war-path  were  obliged 
to  give  themselves  unbridled  range  of  some  sort. 

The  monastery  brethren  had  closed  their  white 
washed  gates,  not  because  they  objected  to  the 
yearly  fete,  nor  because  custom  made  the  monastery 

70 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

the  goal  in  horse-racing,  but  because  there  \vas  in 
the  festivities  an  abandoned  spirit  to  be  dealt  with 
only  by  the  parish  priest.  On  ordinary  days  the 
brethren  were  glad  to  show  those  beneficial  death's 
heads  with  which  their  departed  prior  had  orna 
mented  the  inner  walls  of  his  tomb  before  he  came 
to  use  it.  The  village  knew  it  had  been  that  good 
prior's  habit  to  sit  in  a  coffin  meditating,  while  he 
painted  skulls  and  cross-bones  in  that  roofed  en 
closure  which  was  to  be  his  body's  last  resting- 
place.  Young  squaws  and  braves  often  peeped  at 
the  completed  grave  and  its  surrounding  symbols 
of  mortality.  It  was  as  good  as  a  Chippewa  ghost- 
story. 

The  priest  let  himself  be  seen  all  the  morning. 
Without  speaking  a  word,  he  was  a  check  upon  the 
riotous.  Ottawa  and  Chippewa  had  a  right  to 
commemorate  some  observances  of  their  forefathers. 
He  always  winked  at  their  dances.  And  this  day 
the  one  silent  Indian  on  the  fence  troubled  him 
more  than  all  the  barbaric  horsemen. 

Moses'  wife  had  been  to  him.  Lucy  was  very 
indignant  at  her  cousin  Catharine.  Moses  neither 
ate  nor  slept,  and  he  groaned  in  the  night  as  if  he 
had  toothache.  He  would  not  talk  to  her.  The 
good  father  might  not  believe  it,  but  Catharine 
was  putting  a  spell  on  Moses,  in  revenge  for  Frank 
Chibam.  Catharine  blamed  Moses  for  everything 
— the  shipwreck,  the  drowning,  perhaps  even  for 
the  storm.  She  hounded  him  out  of  the  house  and 
then  she  hounded  him  in  again,  by  standing  and 

71 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

looking  at  him  with  fixed  gaze.  It  was  more  than 
flesh  could  bear.  The  father  must  see  that  Moses 
and  Lucy  would  have  to  leave  Cross  Village  and 
go  to  the  Cheneaux  or  Mackinac,  taking  the  grand 
mother  with  them.  It  would  be  hard  for  Moses  to 
live  without  a  boat.  But  then,  Lucy  demanded 
triumphantly,  what  would  Catharine  do  without  a 
man  or  any  relation  left  in  the  house? 

The  priest  looked  from  Catharine,  motionless  as 
a  rock  in  the  sun  by  the  church  gable,  to  Moses  on 
the  fence  with  his  back  towards  her.  The  grand 
mother,  oblivious  to  both,  felt  her  way  along  the 
ground  with  a  stick,  and  Lucy  watched,  nearer  the 
grove.  These  four  had  occupied  one  of  the  small 
unpainted  wooden  houses  as  a  united  family.  It 
was  a  sorrow  to  the  priest  that  they  might  now  be 
divided,  one  of  them  bearing  an  unconfessed  trouble 
on  his  mind.  For  if  Moses  Nazagebic  was  as  in 
nocent  as  his  wife  Lucy  believed  him  to  be  of  the 
catastrophe  which  he  said  had  happened  on  Lake 
Superior,  he  would  not  fly  from  poor  Catharine  as 
from  an  avenger. 

There  were  fences  of  silver  flattened  out  on  the 
water;  farther  from  shore  flitted  changeable  bars 
of  green  and  rose  and  pale-blue,  converging  until 
they  swept  the  surface  like  some  colossal  peacock's 
tail.  The  grandmother  stumping  with  her  stick 
came  quite  near  the  cliff  edge  and  stopped  there. 
She  was  not  blind  or  deaf,  but  her  mind  had 
long  been  turned  inward  and  backward.  She  saw 
daily  happenings  as  symbols  of  what  had  been. 

72 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

She  knew  more  tribal  lore  than  any  other  Indian 
of  Cross  Village ;  and  repeated,  as  she  had  repeated 
a  hundred  times  before  when  scanning  the  log  dock 
with  its  fleet  of  courtesying  boats,  the  steep  road, 
and  the  strip  of  sand  below  : 

"  Down  there  was  the  first  cross  set  up,  many 
years  ago,  by  a  man  who  came  here  in  a  large 
boat  moved  by  wings  like  the  wings  of  a  gull.  The 
man  had  a  white  face  and  long  hair  the  color 
of  the  sun.  When  he  first  landed  he  fell  on  his 
knees  and  then  began  to  count  a  string  of  beads. 
Then  he  sang  a  song  and  called  the  other  men, 
some  of  whom  were  Indians,  from  the  boat.  They 
cut  down  trees,  and  he  made  them  set  up  a  large 
cross  at  the  foot  of  the  bluff.  Since  then  that 
strip  of  sand  has  been  sacred,  though  the  cross  is 
gone  and  a  new  one  is  set  here  by  our  priest." 

The  old  squaw  indicated  with  her  stick  the  silver- 
colored  relic  behind  Moses  Nazagebic.  Her  gut 
tural  chant  affected  none  of  her  hearers,  except 
that  Catharine  frowned  at  a  sight  which  could 
divert  Moses.  The  Ottawas  and  Chippewas  are  a 
hard-featured  people.  Catharine  was,  perhaps,  the 
handsomest  product  of  an  ill-favored  village.  Hag 
gard  pallor  now  encroached  on  the  vermilion  of  her 
cheek.  She  wore  an  old  hat  of  plaited  bark  pulled 
down  to  her  eyes,  and  her  strong  black  hair  hung 
in  two  neglected  braids.  The  patience  of  aboriginal 
womanhood  was  not  stamped  on  her  as  it  was  on 
Lucy.  A  panther  could  look  no  fiercer  than  this 
lithe  young  Indian  girl,  whose  bridal  finery  was 

73 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

hid  in  the  house  and  whose  banns  had  been  pub 
lished  in  the  mission  church. 

Trying  to  grapple  with  the  trouble  of  Moses 
Nazagebic  and  Catharine,  the  priest  also  stood 
gazing  at  the  dock,  where  children  usually  played, 
tumbling  in  to  swim  or  be  drawn  out,  only  more 
roseate  for  the  bath.  The  children  were  now 
gathered  in  the  grove  or  along  the  race -course. 
Nothing  moved  below  except  lapping  water.  It 
was  seldom  that  these  lake  -  going  people  left 
their  landing  -  place  so  deserted.  Gliding  down 
from  the  north  where  the  cliff  had  screened  it  from 
view,  came  a  small  schooner.  The  priest,  shaded  by 
his  broad  hat,  watched  the  passing  craft  with  barely 
conscious  recognition  of  it  as  an  object  until  hand 
kerchiefs  fluttered  from  the  deck  and  startled  him. 

The  tall  silver -white  cross  was  so  conspicuous 
that  any  one  standing  near  it  must  be  observed. 
The  priest  shook  his  handkerchief  in  reply.  He 
had  many  friends  along  the  coast  and  among  the 
islands.  But  his  long  sight  caught  some  familiar 
guise  which  made  him  directly  signal  and  entreat 
with  wide  peremptory  sweeps  of  the  arm. 

"  Moses,"  commanded  the  priest,  "  you  must  un 
fasten  a  boat  and  go  with  me.  There  are  people 
on  board  yonder  that  I  want  to  see." 

No  other  man  being  at  hand,  the  request  was  a 
natural  one,  and  Moses  had  been  used  to  respond 
ing  to  such  needs  of  the  priest.  But  he  cast  a 
quick  look  at  the  black  robe  and  sat  sullenly  until 
a  stern  repetition  compelled  him. 

74 


THE  PENITENT  OF  CROSS  VILLAGE 

The  priest  had  continued  his  signals,  and  the 
schooner  came  about  and  waited.  It  was  not  a 
long  pull.  Moses,  rowing  with  his  back  towards 
the  schooner,  watched  the  face  of  his  spiritual 
father. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  the  priest,  and  almost  in 
stantly  some  one  on  the  schooner  deck  hailed  him  : 

"Good-day,  your  reverence!  What  can  we  do 
for  you?" 

And  another  voice  that  Moses  knew  well  shout 
ed : 

"Hello,  Moses,  is  that  you?  Where's  Frank? 
Did  you  get  back  all  right  with  the  sail-boat?" 

The  Indian  cowered  over  his  oars  without  an 
swering  or  turning  his  head. 

"  I  have  come  out,"  answered  the  priest,  "  to 
satisfy  myself  that  I  really  see  you  here  alive.  We 
heard  you  were  shipwrecked  and  drowned  in  Lake 
Superior." 

"  Shipwrecked,  your  reverence!  What  nonsense! 
We  had  a  fine  voyage  and  dismissed  the  men  at 
the  Sault.  But  since  then  we  decided  to  make  an 
other  cruise  to  the  head  of  Lake  Michigan,  and 
hired  another  skipper.  There  is  Moses  in  the  boat 
with  you,  and  Frank  came  home  with  him.  They 
knew  we  were  not  shipwrecked." 

"  Will  you  land  at  Cross  Village?" 

"No,  your  reverence.  We  only  tacked  in  to 
salute  the  cross  in  passing." 

"  But  where  shall  I  find  you  if  I  have  urgent 
business  with  you?" 

75 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

"  At  Little  Traverse  Bay.  We  cannot  stop 
here." 

The  schooner  was  drifting  away  broadside,  and 
the  voice  of  the  speaker  came  across  a  widening 
swell  of  water.  Then  she  came  up  into  her  course, 
cutting  a  breastwork  of  foam  in  front  of  her  as  she 
passed  on  southward.  With  pantomime  saluta 
tions  the  priest  and  the  two  men  who  had  hired 
Moses  Nazagebic  and  Frank  Chibam  took  leave  of 
each  other. 

It  had  been  a  brief  conference,  but  Moses  rowed 
back  a  convicted  criminal.  •  He  did  not  look  at  his 
conscience  -  keeper  in  the  end  of  the  boat.  His 
high-cheeked  face  seemed  to  have  had  all  individu 
ality  blotted  out  of  it.  Dazed  and  blear-eyed,  he 
shipped  his  oars  and  tied  the  boat  to  its  stake.  A 
great  noise  of  drumming  and  shouting  came  from 
the  grove  above,  for  the  dances  were  soon  to  begin. 

The  steep  road  was  a  Calvary  height  to  Moses. 
He  dragged  his  feet  as  he  climbed  and  stumbled 
in  the  deep  sand ;  he  who  was  so  lithe  of  limb  and 
nimble  in  any  action.  He  had  felt  Catharine's  eyes 
on  his  back  like  burning-glasses  as  he  sat  on  the 
fence.  They  reflected  on  him  now  in  one  glare  all 
the  knowledge  that  the  priest  had  gained  of  his 
crime.  It  was  easier  to  follow  to  instant  confession 
than  to  stay  outside  longer  where  Catharine  could 
watch  him.  His  wife's  grandmother  passed  him, 
tapping  along  the  fence  and  repeating  again  the 
legend  of  the  first  cross  in  Cross  Village.  Even  in 
that  day  men  who  had  slain  their  brothers  were 

76 


THE  PENITENT  OF  CROSS  VILLAGE 

expected  to  give  satisfaction  to  the  tribe.  It  was 
either  a  life  for  a  life  or  the  labor  of  long  hunting 
to  solace  a  bereaved  family. 

He  knelt  down  in  the  place  where  he  had  often 
confessed  such  little  sins  as  lying  or  convivial 
drunkenness.  How  slight  and  innocent  these  of 
fences  seemed  as  the  hopeless  weight  of  this  bur 
den  crushed  him.  The  stern  yet  compassionate 
face  over  him  exacted  every  word. 

The  priest  remembered  that  this  had  not  been  a 
bad  Chippewa.  He  had  lived  a  steady,  honest  life 
in  his  humble  station,  keeping  the  three  women 
well  provided  with  such  comforts  as  they  needed ; 
he  had  fished,  he  had  labored  at  wood-chopping, 
and  in  the  season  helped  Lucy  fill  her  birch-bark 
mococks  with  maple  sugar  for  sale  at  the  larger  set 
tlements.  The  anguish  of  Cain  was  in  the  man's 
eyes.  Natural  life  and  he  had  already  parted 
company.  The  teeth  showed  between  his  relaxed 
lips. 

"  Moses  Nazagebic,"  said  the  priest,  disregarding 
formula  and  dealing  with  the  primitive  sinner, 
"  what  have  you  done  with  Frank  Chibam  ?" 

"  Father,  I  kill  him." 

The  brief  English  which  the  Indian  men  mas 
tered  and  used  in  their  trading  at  the  settlements 
was  Moses'  refuge  in  confession.  To  profane  his 
native  language  with  his  crime  seemed  the  last 
enormity  of  all. 

"  It  was  a  lie  that  there  was  a  wreck  in  Lake 
Superior  ?" 

77 


THE  PENITENT  OF  CROSS  VILLAGE 

"  Yes,  father." 

"  It  was  a  lie  that  you  lost  your  sail-boat  ?" 

"  Yes,  father." 

"Did  you  intend  to  kill  Fraiik?" 

Moses  swallowed  as  if  his  throat  were  closing. 

"  No — no !  We  both  drunk.  We  quarrel ;  Frank 
sitting  on  edge  of  boat.  I  come  up  behind  and  hit 
him  with  oar.  I  knock  him  into  the  water." 

"This  was  after  the  white  men  left  you?" 

"Yes,  father.  We  have  our  money.  We  get 
drunk  at  Sault.'' 

"Where  is  his  body?" 

"  In  St.  Mary's  Kiver.  Not  far  above  Drum- 
mond  Island." 

"Are  you  sure  he  was  drowned?" 

"Oh,  sure!"  Moses'  jaw  dropped.  "Frank  he 
go  down  like  a  stone;  and  his  spirit  follow  me  ever 
since.  His  spirit  tell  Catharine.  His  spirit  drive 
these  men  back  so  Cross  Village  know  the  truth. 
Good  name,  Chibam  —  that  mean  spirit.  It  fol 
low  me  all  the  time.  I  get  no  rest  till  that  spirit 
satisfied." 

"My  unhappy  son,  you  must  confess  and  give 
yourself  up  to  justice." 

"Justice  no  good.  Justice  hang.  Frank  Chi 
bam  want  me  go  down  like  stone.  Frank  Chibam 
drive  me  back  where  he  went  down.  But  I  not 
have  my  boat.  Next  thing  Frank  Chibam  send 
me  boat." 

"What  did  you  do  with  Frank's  and  yours?" 

"  I  leave  it  at  Drummond  Island,  with  Chippe- 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

wa  there ;  and  tell  him  to  give  it  to  nobody  but 
Frank  Chibam.  I  never  set  foot  on  that  boat 
again — Frank's  spirit  angrier  there  than  anywhere 
else." 

"  But  how  did  you  come  home?" 

"  I  get  other  Chippewa  at  Drummond  to  bring 
me  to  Mackinac.  Then  I  get  Chippewa  at  Mack- 
inac  to  bring  me  to  Cross  Village.  I  tell  last 
Chippewa  I  had  a  shipwreck.  After  Frank  drowned 
I  not  know  what  to  do.  I  had  to  come  home.  I 
thought  if  I  said  the  boat  was  wrecked  my  people 
might  believe  me.  I  have  to  see  Lucy."  His 
bloodshot  eyes  piteously  sought  the  compassion  of 
his  confessor.  One  moment's  lapse  into  a  brutal 
frenzy  which  now  seemed  some  other  man's  had 
changed  all  things  for  him. 

Never  before  had  penitent  come  to  that  closet  in 
such  despair.  Moses  had  repented  through  what 
seemed  to  him  a  long  nightmare  of  succeeding 
days.  There  was  no  hope  for  him.  He  was  called 
a  Christian  Indian,  but  the  white  man's  consola 
tions  and  ideas  of  retribution  were  not  the  red  man's. 

He  heard  the  priest  arrange  a  journey  for  him 
to  give  himself  up  to  the  law.  The  priest  was  a 
wise  man,  but  this  was  uselessly  clogging  the 
wheels  of  fate.  He  did  not  want  to  sit  in  a  jail 
with  Frank  Chibam's  spirit.  Such  company  was 
bad  enough  in  the  open  sunlight.  It  was  plain 
that  neither  Frank  nor  Catharine  would  be  ap 
peased  by  any  offering  short  of  their  full  measure 
of  vengeance. 

79 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

Having  settled  it  that  Moses'  penance  for  his 
crime  must  be  to  give  himself  up  to  the  law,  the 
priest  left  him  in  the  chapel  and  went  out  to  press 
some  sail- boat  into  service.  It  would  be  almost 
impossible  to  take  any  Indian  from  the  festivities. 
The  death  of  the  most  agile  dancer  and  the  with 
drawal  of  the  most  ardent  horse- racer  had  very 
mildly  checked  the  usual  joy. 

Moses  in  his  broken  state  was,  perhaps,  capable 
of  sailing  a  boat,  but  it  would  be  wiser  to  have  an 
other  skipper  aboard  in  crossing  the  strait  to 
Mackinac. 

It  was  fortunate,  on  the  other  hand,  that  the 
fete  had  prevented  fishermen  from  hailing  the 
passing  schooner.  The  men  were  known  by  all 
the  villagers,  having  stayed  at  the  Cross  Tillage 
inn,  a  place  scarcely  larger  than  a  Chippewa  cabin, 
kept  by  the  only  white  family.  These  tribe  rem 
nants  were  gentle  in  their  semi-civilization,  yet  the 
priest  dreaded  to  think  what  might  become  of 
Moses  if  they  discovered  his  lie  and  denied  him 
the  indulgence  accorded  to  accidental  man -kill 
ers. 

To  borrow  a  sail-boat  would  be  easy  enough 
while  sympathy  lasted  for  his  penitent.  He  re 
membered  also  that  Lucy  could  help  sail  it,  and  it 
would  be  best  to  take  her  to  Mackinac  for  the  part 
ing  with  her  husband. 

The  cross  was  stretching  its  afternoon  shadow, 
and  wind  sweet  with  the  moisture  of  many  tossing 
blue  miles  flowed  across  the  bluff.  There  never 

80 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

had  been  a  fairer  day  for  the  y early  dances.  Under 
his  trouble  the  priest  was  conscious  of  trivial  self- 
reproach  that  he  had  not  told  the  passers  it  was 
fete  day.  But  he  reflected  that  few  could  love  this 
remote  little  aboriginal  world  as  he  loved  it,  in  joy 
or  tragedy.  The  glamour  of  the  North  was  over 
it  through  every  season.  At  bleak  January-end,  in 
wastes  of  snow,  the  small  houses  were  sealed  and 
glowing  with  fires,  and  sledges  creaked  on  the  crust, 
while  the  shout  of  Indian  children  could  be  heard. 
Then  the  ice-boat  shot  out  on  the  closed  strait 
above  and  veered  like  a  spirit  from  point  to  point, 
almost  silent  and  terribly  swift.  On  mornings  after 
there  had  been  a  dry  mist  from  the  lake,  this  whole 
world  was  bridal -white,  every  twig  loaded  with 
frost  blooms,  until  the  far-reaching  glory  gave  it  a 
tropical  beauty  and  lavishness  and  the  frost  fell 
like  showers  of  flower  petals. 

His  people  stood  respectfully  out  of  his  way  as 
he  entered  the  grove.  The  "throb,  throb"  and 
"  pat,  pat "  of  drum  and  feet  were  farther  off,  where 
young  men  were  dancing  in  a  ring.  He  could 
see  their  lithe  bodies  sway  between  tree  boles. 
Old  squaws  sat  with  knees  up  to  their  chins,  and 
old  men  smoked,  pressing  close  to  the  spectacle. 
The  priest  was  sensitive  enough  to  feel  a  stir  of 
uneasiness  at  his  invasion  of  the  aboriginal  temple, 
and  he  was  not  long  in  having  a  boat  put  at  his 
disposal. 

The  next  thing  was  to  induce  Moses  and  Lucy  to 
accompany  him  quietly  down  to  the  dock.  He 
F  81 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

spoke  to  Lucy  at  her  door.  She  sat  in  dull  dejec 
tion,  her  basket-work  and  supply  of  sweet  grass  on 
the  floor  beside  her. 

"  Come,  Lucy !  I  have  business  in  Mackinac,  and 
Moses  and  you  must  take  me  there." 

"Did  that  schooner  bring  you  news,  father?" 

"  Yes." 

"  But  it  is  late." 

"We  may  remain  there  to-night.  Take  such 
things  with  you  as  your  husband  might  need  for  a 
week." 

Lucy  obediently  put  her  basket-work  away  and 
prepared  for  the  journey.  She  was  conscious  of 
triumph  over  Catharine,  from  whom  the  priest  was 
about  to  rescue  Moses.  She  put  on  her  best  sweet- 
grass  hat  and  made  up  her  bundle. 

The  priest  brought  Moses  out  of  the  chapel  with 
a  pity  and  tenderness  that  touched  Lucy,  and  the 
three  went  down  the  steep  road.  Her  grandmother 
was  sitting  in  the  sun  by  the  gable  and  did  not 
notice  them.  The  old  woman  was  telling  herself 
the  story  of  Nanabojou.  The  sail-boat  which  they 
were  to  take  was  anchored  off  the  end  of  the  dock. 
Moses  rowed  out  after  it  and  brought  it  alongside. 
He  was  busy  raising  the  sails  and  the  priest  and 
Lucy  had  already  taken  their  seats  when  the  little 
craft  answered  to  a  light  bound  over  the  stern,  and 
Catharine  sat  resolutely  down,  looking  at  Moses 
Nazagebic. 

Moses  let  the  sails  fall  and  leaped  out.  He  tied 
the  rope  to  the  dock. 

82 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

"Get  into  the  boat  again,  Moses!"  commanded 
the  priest.  "  And  Catharine,  you  go  back !" 

Moses  shook  his  head.  His  spirit  was  broken, 
but  it  was  a  physical  impossibility  for  him  to  sail  a 
boat  to  Mackinac  with  Catharine  aboard. 

The  priest  knew  he  might  as  well  attempt  to 
control  gulls.  French  clamor  or  Anglo-Saxon 
brutality  would  be  easy  to  persuade  or  compel,  in 
comparison  with  this  dense  aboriginal  silence.  He 
took  patience  and  sat  still,  reading  his  breviarv. 
The  boat  ground  softly  against  logs,  and  Lucy 
hugged  her  bundle,  determined  on  the  journey. 
Moses  remained  with  his  back  to  them,  dangling 
his  legs  over  the  end  of  the  dock.  Catharine  kept 
her  place,  grasping  the  edges  of  the  craft.  It  was 
plain  if  Moses  Nazagebic  went  to  Mackinac  it 
would  be  in  the  hands  of  officers  sent  to  bring  him 
at  a  later  period.  So  the  day  dropped  down  in 
splendor,  lake  and  sky  becoming  one  dazzle  of  gold 
so  bright  the  eye  might  not  dwell  on  it.  The 
party  of  four  returned,  and  Catharine  walked  last 
up  the  hill.  Religion  and  penance  were  nothing 
to  a  Chippewa  girl  who  had  distinct  intentions  of 
vengeance. 

She  kept  an  eye  on  her  victim  while  she  milked 
the  cows  as  they  came  from  the  woods  to  keep 
their  nightly  appointment.  The  priest  owned  some 
lack  in  himself  that  he  could  not  better  handle  the 
destinies  around  him.  They  hurt  him,  as  rock 
would  bruise  tender  flesh. 

Barbaric  instrumentation  and  shouting  did  not 
83 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

keep  him  awake  after  darkness  closed  in.  He 
would  have  lain  awake  if  a  dog  had  not  stirred  in 
Cross  Tillage.  He  heard  the  wind  change  and 
strike  the  east  side  of  his  house  with  gusts  of  rain. 
Fires  must  die  down  to  wet  ashes  in  the  grove.  He 
knew  the  cross  stood  white  and  tall  in  scudding 
mist,  and  on  the  crosses  in  the  cemetery  chaplets 
and  flowers  made  of  white  rags  hung  bedraggled. 
He  foresaw  the  kind  of  day  which  would  open  be 
fore  his  poor  penitent  and  be  a  symbol  of  the  life 
that  was  to  follow. 

It  was  the  priest  himself  who  introduced  Moses 
to  this  day,  opening  the  door  and  standing  unheed 
ing  under  the  overflow  of  the  eaves.  The  hiss  of 
rain  could  be  heard,  and  daylight  penetrated  re 
luctantly  abroad.  Moses  sat  drooped  forward  with 
his  elbows  on  his  knees  by  the  open  fire.  Lucy 
hurried  to  answer  the  summons,  believing  the 
priest  had  found  some  knew  haven  for  Moses  while 
her  cousin  was  out  of  the  house. 

But  there  stood  Catharine  behind  the  priest,  the 
spell  of  her  fierceness  broken,  and  at  her  side  was 
Frank  Chibam,  undrowned  and  amiably  grinning, 
his  dark  red  skin  stung  by  the  weather,  indeed,  but 
otherwise  little  changed  by  water. 

"  Tell  Moses  I  want  him!"  said  the  priest.  "  And 
Catharine,  you  go  into  the  house!" 

This  time  Catharine  nimbly  obeyed.  As  for 
Lucy,  she  made  no  outcry.  She  merely  satisfied 
herself  it  was  Frank  Chibam  before  hurrying  her 
husband  to  the  spectacle. 

84 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

Moses  stepped  out  bareheaded  into  the  rain,  and 
his  jaw  dropped.  The  priest  closed  the  door  be 
hind  him. 

Frank  took  his  hand.  Moses  "felt  the  young 
man's  firm  sinew  and  muscle.  He  looked  piteous- 
ly  at  the  priest,  his  head  sagging  to  one  side,  his 
face  working  in  a  spasm. 

"  I  should  have  prepared  him,  Frank.  This 
comes  too  suddenly  on  him." 

They  took  Moses  between  them  and  walked 
with  him  along  the  fence  at  the  foot  of  the  cross. 
The  raindrops  moved  down  his  face  like  tears.  He 
did  not  speak,  but  listened  with  a  child's  intent- 
ness,  first  to  one  and  then  to  the  other,  leaning  his 
arm  on  his  partner's  shoulder. 

"  I  don't  understand  why  he  was  so  certain  he 
had  killed  you,  Frank.  He  told  me  he  struck  you 
with  an  oar  and  saw  you  go  down  in  the  water  like 
a  stone." 

"  Whiskey,  father,"  explained  Frank  in  trader's 
brief  English.  "  Plenty  very  bad  whiskey.  It 
make  me  sick  for  a  week.  The  boom  knocked  us 
both  down,  and  I  fell  into  the  water.  The  fisher 
man  from  one  of  the  little  islands  who  pull  me  out 
say  that.  Moses,  he  drunker  than  me;  he  too 
drunk  to  bring  the  boat  home." 

"  The  poor  fellow  told  lies  to  cover  the  crime 
he  thought  he  had  committed.  He  has  suffered, 
Frank.  And  I  have  suffered.  "We  will  say  nothing 
about  Catharine.  Why  didn't  you  come  sooner?" 

"  I  take  the  boat  and  go  fishing.  I  say,  '  Moses, 
85 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

that  lazy  Chippewa,  leave  the  boat  for  me  to  bring 
home;  I  make  him  wait  for  it.'" 

"  Did  you  quarrel  at  all?" 

"  Maybe  so,"  said  Frank.  "  Whiskey  not  let  you 
remember  much.  But  I  could  kill  Moses  easier 
than  he  could  kill  me." 

"He  has  suffered  enough.  But  you,  my  son, 
ought  to  do  heavy  penance." 

"  Not  put  off  wedding  ?"  suggested  Frank,  un 
easily. 

"  I  had  not  thought  of  unusual  methods ;  it  might 
be  good  discipline  for  Catharine,  too.  But  we  have 
lost  enough  cheer  on  your  account." 

"  I  never  spend  my  money  for  whiskey  any  more, 
father.  If  some  man  ask  me  to  take  a  drink,  I 
drink  with  him,  but  not  get  drunk — no." 

Moses  laughed,  his  face  shortening  in  horizontal 
lines. 

"  That  Frank  Chibam.  Frank  make  me  pay  for 
all  the  whiskey.  He  not  drowned.  I  not  kill  him. 
His  spirit  only  an  evil  dream." 

"  The  evil  dream  is  now  past,  Moses,"  said  the 
priest. 

"  Wake  up,  my  brother !"  said  Frank  in  Chippe 
wa.  "  I  have  a  boatful  of  fish.  You  must  come 
and  help  me  with  them.  The  good  father  will  go 
back  to  his  books  when  he  sees  you  are  yourself 
once  more." 

Under  the  rain  -  cloud  the  lake  had  turned  to 
blue-black  velvet  water  pricked  with  thousands  of 
tossing  white-caps.  Near  shore  it  seemed  full  of 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

submerged  smoke.  And  the  rack  tore  itself,  drag 
ging  low  across  the  west.  Moses,  remembering 
the  last  sunset  and  its  sickening  splendors,  felt  that 
he  had  never  seen  so  fine  a  day.  He  worked  bare 
headed  and  with  his  sleeves  above  his  elbows  among 
the  fish.  Gulls  were  flying,  each  making  a  bur 
nished  white  glare  against  that  background  of 
weather.  Looking  up,  the  Chippewa  could  see  the 
cross  at  the  top  of  the  bluff,  standing  over  him  in 
holy  benediction.  He  felt  lighter-bodied  than  a 
gull.  And  the  anguish  of  that  wretch  who  had 
sat  on  the  fence  believing  himself  a  murderer  was 
forgotten. 

In  the  house  his  wife  was  exacting  what  in  elder 
times  would  have  been  typified  by  an  intricate 
piece  of  wampum,  from  her  repentant  cousin.  Cath 
arine  brought  in  wood  and  carried  water.  Cath 
arine  was  not  permitted  to  make  the  great  fish-pie, 
but  could  only  look  on.  She  served  humbly.  She 
had  wronged  her  kinspeople  by  evil  suspicion,  and 
must  make  atonement.  No  words  were  lost  be 
tween  her  and  Lucy.  She  must  lay  her  hand  upon 
her  mouth  and  be  tasked  until  the  elder  woman 
was  appeased.  It  was  not  the  way  of  civilized 
women,  but  it  was  the  aboriginal  scheme,  which 
the  priest  found  good. 

Lucy  was  not  yet  ready  to  demand  the  truth 
about  the  two  wThite  men  and  the  shipwrecked 
boat.  Her  entire  mind  was  given  to  humbling 
Catharine  and  impressing  upon  that  forward  young 
squaw  that  her  husband  was  in  no  way  accountable 

87 


THE    PENITENT    OF    CROSS    VILLAGE 

for   the   disappearance   and    vagrancy   of    Frank 
Chibam. 

The  grandmother  basked  at  the  hearth  corner 
while  this  silent  retribution  went  on  unseen.  She 
was  repeating  again  the  story  of  the  first  cross  in 
Cross  Tillage.  She  did  not  know  that  anything 
had  happened  in  the  house. 


THE   KING   OF  BEAVER 


SUCCESS  was  the  word  most  used  by  the  King 
of  Beaver.  Though  he  stood  before  his 
people  as  a  prophet  assuming  to  speak  reve 
lations,  executive  power  breathed  from  him.  He 
was  a  tall,  golden-tinted  man  with  a  head  like  a 
dome,  hair  curling  over  his  ears,  and  soft  beard 
and  mustache  which  did  not  conceal  a  mouth  cut 
thin  and  straight.  He  had  student  hands,  long 
and  well  kept.  It  was  not  his  dress,  though  that 
was  careful  as  a  girl's,  which  set  him  apart  from 
farmers  listening  on  the  benches  around  him,  but 
the  keen  light  of  his  blue  eyes,  wherein  shone  the 
master. 

Emeline  thought  she  had  never  before  seen  such 
a  man.  He  had  an  attraction  which  she  felt  loath 
some,  and  the  more  so  because  it  drew  some  part  of 
her  irresistibly  to  him.  Her  spirit  was  kin  to  his, 
and  she  resented  that  kinship,  trying  to  lose  herself 
among  farmers'  wives  and  daughters,  who  listened 
to  their  Prophet  stolidly,  and  were  in  no  danger  of 
being  naturally  selected  by  him.  This  moral  terror 
Emeline  could  not  have  expressed  in  words,  and  she 
hid  it  like  a  shame.  She  also  resented  the  subser- 

89 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

vience  of  her  kinspeople  to  one  no  greater  than  her 
self.  Her  stock  had  been  masters  of  men. 

As  the  King  of  Beaver  slowly  turned  about  the 
circle  he  encountered  this  rebel  defying  his  assump 
tion,  and  paused  in  his  speaking  a  full  minute,  the 
drowsy  farmers  seeing  merely  that  notes  were  being 
shifted  and  rearranged  on  the  table.  Then  he  began 
again,  the  dictatorial  key  transposed  into  melody. 
His  covert  message  was  to  the  new  maid  in  the 
congregation.  She  might  struggle  like  a  fly  in  a 
web.  He  wrapped  her  around  and  around  with 
beautiful  sentences.  As  Speaker  of  the  State 
Legislature  he  had  learned  well  how  to  handle  men 
in  the  mass,  but  nature  had  doubly  endowed  him 
for  entrancing  women.  The  spiritual  part  of  James 
Strang,  King  and  Prophet  of  a  peculiar  sect,  ap 
pealed  to  the  one  best  calculated  to  appreciate  him 
during  the  remainder  of  his  exhortation. 

The  Tabernacle,  to  which  Beaver  Island  Mormons 
gathered  every  Saturday  instead  of  every  Sunday, 
was  yet  unfinished.  Its  circular  shape  and  vaulted 
ceiling,  panelled  in  the  hard  woods  of  the  island, 
had  been  planned  by  the  man  who  stood  in  the 
centre.  Many  openings  under  the  eaves  gaped 
windowless;  but  the  congregation,  sheltered  from 
a  July  sun,  enjoyed  freely  the  lake  air,  bringing 
fragrance  from  their  own  fields  and  gardens.  They 
seemed  a  bovine,  honest  people,  in  homespun  and 
hickory;  and  youth,  bright-eyed  and  fresh-cheeked, 
was  not  lacking.  They  sat  on  benches  arranged  in 
circles  around  a  central  platform  which  held  the 

90 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

Prophet's  chair  and  table.  This  was  his  simple 
plan  for  making  his  world  revolve  around  him. 

Roxy  Cheeseman,  Emeline's  cousin,  was  stirred 
to  restlessness  by  the  Prophet's  unusual  manner, 
and  shifted  uneasily  on  the  bench.  Her  short, 
scarlet-cheeked  face  made  her  a  favorite  among  the 
young  men.  She  had  besides  this  attraction  a  small 
waist  and  foot,  and  a  father  who  was  very  well  off 
indeed  for  a  Beaver  Island  farmer.  Roxy's  black 
eyes,  with  the  round  and  unwinking  stare  of  a  bird's, 
were  fixed  on  King  Strang,  as  if  she  instinctively 
warded  off  a  gaze  which  by  swerving  a  little  could 
smite  her. 

But  the  Prophet  paid  no  attention  to  any  one 
when  the  meeting  was  over,  his  custom  being  to 
crush  his  notes  in  one  hand  at  the  end  of  his  pero 
ration,  and  to  retire  like  a  priest,  leaving  the  dis 
persing  congregation  awed  by  his  rapt  face. 

The  two  cousins  walked  sedately  along  the  street 
of  St.  James  village,  while  their  elders  lingered 
about  the  Tabernacle  door  shaking  hands.  That 
primitive  settlement  of  the  early  '50's  consisted  of 
a  few  houses  and  log  stores,  a  mill,  the  Tabernacle, 
and  long  docks,  at  which  steamers  touched  perhaps 
once  a  week.  The  forest  partially  encircled  it.  A 
few  Gentiles,  making  Saturday  purchases  in  a  shop 
kept  by  one  of  their  own  kind,  glanced  with  dislike 
at  the  separating  Mormons.  The  shouts  of  Gentile 
children  could  also  be  heard  at  Saturday  play. 
Otherwise  a  Sabbath  peacefulness  was  over  the 
landscape.  Beaver  Island  had  not  a  rugged  coast- 

91 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

line,  though  the  harbor  of  St.  James  was  deep  and 
good.  Land  rose  from  it  in  gentle  undulations  rather 
than  hills. 

Emeline  and  Koxy  walked  inland,  with  their 
backs  to  the  harbor.  In  summer,  farmers  who 
lived  nearest  St.  James  took  short-cuts  through  the 
woods  to  meeting,  and  let  their  horses  rest. 

The  last  house  on  the  street  was  a  wooden  build 
ing  of  some  pretension,  having  bow-windows  and  a 
veranda.  High  pickets  enclosed  a  secluded  gar 
den.  It  was  very  unlike  the  log -cabins  of  the 
island. 

"  He  lives  here,"  said  Roxy. 

Emeline  did  not  inquire  who  lived  here.  She  un 
derstood,  and  her  question  was — 

"  How  many  with  him  ?" 

"  All  of  them — eight.  Seven  of  them  stay  at 
home,  but  Mary  French  travels  with  him.  Didn't 
you  notice  her  in  the  Tabernacle  —  the  girl  with 
the  rose  in  her  hair,  sitting  near  the  platform  ?" 

"Yes,  I  noticed  her.  Was  that  one  of  his 
wives  F 

Koxy  waited  until  they  had  struck  into  the  woods 
path,  and  then  looked  guardedly  behind  her. 

"Mary  French  is  the  youngest  one.  She  was 
sealed  to  the  Prophet  only  two  years  ago ;  and 
last  winter  she  went  travelling  with  him,  and  we 
heard  she  dressed  in  men's  clothes  and  acted  as  his 
secretary." 

"  But  why  did  she  do  that  when  she  was  his  wife 
according  to  your  religion  ?" 

92 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

"I  don't  know,"  responded  Roxy,  mysteriously. 
"  The  Gentiles  on  the  mainland  are  very  hard  on 
us." 

They  followed  the  track  between  fragrant  grape 
vine  and  hickory,  and  the  girl  bred  to  respect  po 
lygamy  inquired— 

"Do  you  feel  afraid  of  the  Prophet,  Cousin 
Emeline  ?" 

"  No,  I  don't,"  retorted  the  girl  bred  to  abhor  it. 

"  Sometimes  I  do.  He  makes  people  do  just  what 
he  wants  them  to.  Mary  French  was  a  Gentile's 
daughter,  the  proudest  girl  that  ever  stepped  in  St. 
James.  She  didn't  live  on  the  island ;  she  came 
here  to  visit.  And  he  got  her.  What's  the  mat 
ter,  Cousin  Emeline  f ' 

"  Some  one  trod  on  my  grave ;  I  shivered.  Cousin 
Roxy,  I  want  to  ask  you  a  plain  question.  Do  you 
like  a  man's  having  more  than  one  wife  ?" 

"No,  I  don't.  And  father  doesn't  either.  But 
he  was  obliged  to  marry  again,  or  get  into  trouble 
with  the  other  elders.  And  Aunt  Mahala  is  very 
good  about  the  house,  and  minds  mother.  The 
revelation  may  be  plain  enough,  but  I  am  not  the 
kind  of  a  girl,"  declared  Roxy,  daringly,  as  one 
might  blaspheme,  "that  cares  a  straw  for  the 
revelation." 

Emeline  took  hold  of  her  arm,  and  they  walked 
on  with  a  new  sense  of  companionship. 

"  A  great  many  of  the  people  feel  the  same  way 
about  it.  But  when  the  Prophet  makes  them  un 
derstand  it  is  part  of  the  faith,  they  have  to  keep 
,93 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

the  faith.  I  am  a  reprobate  myself.  But  don't 
tell  father,"  appealed  Roxy,  uneasily.  "  He  is  an 
elder." 

"My  uncle  Cheeseman  is  a  good  man,"  said 
Emeline,  finding  comfort  in  this  fact.  She  could 
not  explain  to  her  cousin  how  hard  it  had  been  for 
her  to  come  to  Beaver  Island  to  live  among  Mor 
mons.  Her  uncle  had  insisted  on  giving  his  orphan 
niece  a  home  and  the  protection  of  a  male  relative, 
at  the  death  of  the  maiden  aunt  by  whom  she  had 
been  brought  up.  In  that  day  no  girl  thought  of 
living  without  protection.  Emeline  had  a  few 
thousand  dollars  of  her  own,  but  her  money  was 
invested,  and  he  could  not  count  on  the  use  of 
it,  which  men  assumed  a  right  to  have  when  help 
less  women  clustered  to  their  hearths.  Her  uncle 
Cheeseman  was  undeniably  a  good  man,  whatever 
might  be  said  of  his  religious  faith. 

"  I  like  father  myself,"  assented  Roxy.  "  He  is 
never  strict  with  us  unless  the  Prophet  has  some 
revelation  that  makes  him  so.  Cousin  Emeline,  I 
hope  you  won't  grow  to  be  taken  up  with  Brother 
Strang,  like  Mary  French.  I  thought  he  looked  at 
you  to-day." 

Emeline's  face  and  neck  were  scarlet  above  her 
black  dress.  The  Gentile  resented  as  an  insult 
what  the  Mormon  simply  foreboded  as  distasteful 
to  herself ;  though  there  was  not  a  family  of  that 
faith  on  the  island  who  would  not  have  felt  honored 
in  giving  a  daughter  to  the  Prophet. 

"  I  hate  him !"  exclaimed  Emeline,  her  virgin  rage 
94 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

mingled  with  a  kind  of  sweet  and  sickening  pain. 
"  I'll  never  go  to  his  church  again." 

"Father  wouldn't  like  that,  Cousin  Emeline,"  ob 
served  Roxy,  though  her  heart  leaped  to  such  un 
shackled  freedom.  "  He  says  we  mustn't  put  our 
hand  to  the  plough  and  turn  back.  Everybody 
knows  that  Brother  Strang  is  the  only  person  who 
can  keep  the  Gentiles  from  driving  us  off  the  island. 
They  have  persecuted  us  ever  since  the  settlement 
was  made.  But  they  are  afraid  of  him.  They  can 
not  do  anything  with  him.  As  long  as  he  lives  he 
is  better  than  an  army  to  keep  our  lands  and  homes 
for  us." 

"  You  are  in  a  hard  case  betwixt  Gentiles  and 
Prophet,"  laughed  Emeline. 

Yet  the  aspects  of  life  on  Beaver  Island  keenly 
interested  her.  This  small  world,  fifteen  miles  in 
length  by  six  in  breadth,  was  shut  off  by  itself  in 
Lake  Michigan,  remote  from  the  civilization  of 
towns.  She  liked  at  first  to  feel  cut  loose  from 
her  past  life,  and  would  have  had  the  steamers 
touch  less  often  at  St.  James,  diminishing  their 
chances  of  bringing  her  hateful  news. 

There  were  only  two  roads  on  the  island  —  one 
extending  from  the  harbor  town  in  the  north  end 

O 

to  a  village  called  Galilee  at  the  extreme  southeast 
end,  the  other  to  the  southwest  shore.  Along  these 
roads  farms  were  laid  out,  each  about  eighty  rods 
in  width  and  a  mile  or  two  in  length,  so  that  neigh 
bors  dwelt  within  call  of  one  another,  and  the  col 
ony  presented  a  strong  front.  The  King  of  Beaver 

95 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

could  scarcely  have  counselled  a  better  division  of 
land  for  the  linking  of  families.  On  one  side  of 
the  Cheesemans  had  dwelt  an  excellent  widow  with 
a  bag  chin,  and  she  became  Elder  Cheeseman's 
second  wife.  On  the  other  side  were  the  Went- 
worths,  and  Billy  Wentworth  courted  Eoxy  across 
the  fence  until  it  appeared  that  wives  might  con 
tinue  passing  over  successive  boundary  lines. 

The  billowy  land  was  green  in  the  morning  as 
paradise,  and  Emeline  thought  every  day  its  lights 
and  shadows  were  more  beautiful  than  the  day  be 
fore.  Life  had  paused  in  her,  and  she  was  glad  to 
rest  her  eyes  on  the  horizon  line  and  take  no 
thought  about  any  morrow.  She  helped  her  cousin 
and  her  legal  and  Mormon  aunts  with  the  children 
and  the  cabin  labor,  trying  to  adapt  herself  to  their 
habits.  But  her  heart-sickness  and  sense  of  fitting 
in  her  place  like  a  princess  cast  among  peasants  put 
her  at  a  disadvantage  when,  the  third  evening,  the 
King  of  Beaver  came  into  the  garden. 

He  chose  that  primrose  time  of  day  when  the 
world  and  the  human  spirit  should  be  mellowest, 
and  walked  with  the  farmer  between  garden  beds 
to  where  Emeline  and  Roxy  were  tending  flowers. 
The  entire  loamy  place  sent  up  incense.  Emeline 
had  felt  at  least  sheltered  and  negatively  happy 
until  his  voice  modulations  strangely  pierced  her, 
and  she  looked  up  and  saw  him. 

He  called  her  uncle  Brother  Cheeseman  and  her 
uncle  called  him  Brother  Strang,  but  on  one  side 
was  the  mien  of  a  sovereign  and  on  the  other  the 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

deference  of  a  subject.  Again  Eraeline's  blood  rose 
against  him,  and  she  took  as  little  notice  as  she 
dared  of  the  introduction. 

The  King  of  Beaver  talked  to  Roxy.  Billy 
Went  worth  came  to  the  line  fence  and  made  a  face 
at  seeing  him  helping  to  tie  up  sweet-peas.  Then 
Billy  climbed  over  and  joined  Emeline.  They  ex 
changed  looks,  and  each  knew  the  mind  of  the 
other  on  the  subject  of  the  Prophet. 

Billy  was  a  good  safe  human  creature,  with  the 
tang  of  the  soil  about  him,  and  no  wizard  power  of 
making  his  presence  felt  when  one's  back  was 
turned.  Emeline  kept  her  gray  eyes  directed  tow 
ards  him,  and  talked  about  his  day's  work  and  the 
trouble  of  ploughing  with  oxen.  She  was  delicately 
and  sensitively  made,  with  a  beauty  which  came 
and  went  like  flame.  Her  lips  were  formed  in 
scarlet  on  a  naturally  pale  face.  Billy  Went  worth 
considered  her  weakly.  He  preferred  the  robust 
arm  outlined  by  Roxy's  homespun  sleeve.  And  yet 
she  had  a  sympathetic  knowledge  of  men  which  he 
felt,  without  being  able  to  describe,  as  the  most 
delicate  flattery. 

The  King  of  Beaver  approached  Emeline.  She 
knew  she  could  not  escape  the  interview,  and  con 
tinued  tying  vines  to  the  cedar  palisades  while  the 
two  young  islanders  drew  joyfully  away  to  another 
part  of  the  garden.  The  stable  and  barn-yard  were 
between  garden  and  cabin.  Long  variegated  fields 
stretched  off  in  bands.  A  gate  let  through  the 
cedar  pickets  to  a  pasture  where  the  cows  came  up 
Q  97 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

to  be  milked.  Bees  gathering  to  their  straw  domes 
for  the  night  made  a  purring  hum  at  the  other  end 
of  the  garden. 

"  I  trust  you  are  here  to  stay,"  said  Emeline's 
visitor. 

"  I  am  never  going  back  to  Detroit,"  she  an 
swered.  He  understood  at  once  that  she  had  met 
grief  in  Detroit,  and  that  it  might  be  other  grief 
than  the  sort  expressed  by  her  black  garment. 

"  We  will  be  kind  to  you  here." 

Emeline,  finishing  her  task,  glanced  over  her 
shoulder  at  him.  She  did  not  know  how  tantaliz- 
ingly  her  face,  close  and  clear  in  skin  texture  as  the 
petal  of  a  lily,  flashed  out  her  dislike.  A  heavier 
woman's  rudeness  in  her  became  audacious  charm. 

"I  like  Beaver  Island,"  she  remarked,  winding 
the  remaining  bits  of  string  into  a  ball.  " '  Every 
prospect  pleases,  and  only  man  is  vile.' " 

"  i7ou  mean  Gentile  man,"  said  King  Strang.  "  He 
is  vile,  but  we  hope  to  get  rid  of  him  some  time." 

"  By  breaking  his  fish-nets  and  stealing  his  sail 
boats?  Is  it  true  that  a  Gentile  sail-boat  was  sunk 
in  Lake  Galilee  and  kept  hidden  there  until  inquiry 
ceased,  and  then  was  raised,  repainted,  and  launched 
again,  a  good  Mormon  boat?" 

He  linked  his  hands  behind  him  and  smiled  at 
her  daring. 

"  How  many  evil  stories  you  have  heard  about  us ! 
My  dear  young  lady,  I  could  rejoin  with  truths 
about  our  persecutions.  Is  your  uncle  Cheeseman 
a  malefactor?" 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

"My  uncle  Cheeseman  is  a  good  man." 

"  So  are  all  my  people.  The  island,  like  all  young 
communities,  is  infested  with  a  class  of  camp-follow 
ers,  and  every  depredation  of  these  fellows  is  charged 
to  us.  But  we  shall  make  it  a  garden — we  shall 
make  it  a  garden." 

"Let  me  train  vines  over  the  whipping-post  in 
your  garden,"  suggested  Emeline,  turning  back  the 
crimson  edge  of  her  lip. 

"  You  have  heard  that  a  man  was  publicly  whipped 
on  Beaver  Island — and  he  deserved  it.  Have  }^ou 
heard  also  that  I  myself  have  been  imprisoned  by 
outsiders,  and  my  life  attempted  more  than  once? 
Don't  you  know  that  in  war  a  leader  must  be  stern 
if  he  would  save  his  people  from  destruction?  Have 
you  never  heard  a  good  thing  of  me,  my  child?" 

Emeline,  facing  her  adversary,  was  enraged  at  the 
conviction  which  the  moderation  and  gentleness  of 
a  martyr  was  able  to  work  in  her. 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed,  I  have  heard  one  good  thing  of 
you — your  undertaking  the  salvation  of  eight  or 
nine  wives." 

"  Not  yet  nine,"  he  responded,  humorously.  "  And 
I  am  glad  you  mentioned  that.  It  is  one  of  our 
mysteries  that  you  will  learn  later.  You  have 
helped  me  greatly  by  such  a  candid  unburdening 
of  your  mind.  For  you  must  know  that  you  and 
I  are  to  be  more  to  each  other  than  strangers.  The 
revelation  was  given  to  you  when  it  was  given  to 
me  in  the  Tabernacle.  I  saw  that." 

The  air  was  thickening  with  dusky  motes.     Erne- 
99 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

line  fancied  that  living  dark  atoms  were  pressing 
down  upon  her  from  infinity. 

"  You  must  know,"  she  said,  with  determination, 
"that  I  came  to  Beaver  Island  because  I  hated 
men,  and  expected  to  see  nothing  but  Mormons 
here—" 

"Not  counting  them  men  at  all,"  indulgently 
supplemented  the  King  of  Beaver,  conscious  that 
she  was  struggling  in  the  most  masculine  presence 
she  had  ever  encountered.  He  dropped  his  voice. 
"My  child,  you  touch  me  as  no  one  has  touched 
me  yet.  There  is  scarcely  need  of  words  between 
us.  I  know  what  I  am  to  you.  You  shall  not  stay 
on  the  island  if  you  do  not  wish  it.  Oh,  you  are 
going  to  make  me  do  my  best !" 

"I  wish  you  would  go  away!" 

"  Some  Gentile  has  hurt  you,  and  you  are  beating 
your  bruised  strength  on  me." 

"  Please  go  away !  I  don't  like  you.  I  am  bound 
to  another  man." 

"  You  are  bound  to  nobody  but  me.  I  have  waited 
a  lifetime  for  you." 

"How  dare  you  talk  so  to  me  when  you  have 
eight  wives  already !" 

"  Solomon  had  a  thousand.  He  was  a  man  of  God, 
though  never  in  his  life  was  there  a  moment  when 
he  took  to  his  breast  a  mate.  I  shall  fare  better." 

"  Did  you  talk  to  them  all  like  this?" 

"  Ask  them.  They  have  their  little  circles  beyond 
which  they  cannot  go.  Have  you  thoughts  in 
common  with  your  cousin  Roxy?" 

100 


THE    KIN^  "OF 


"  Yes,  very  many,"  asserted  Emeline,  doggedly. 
"  I  am  just  like  Cousin  Roxy." 

"  You  have  no  mind  beyond  the  milking  and 
churning,  the  sewing  and  weaving?" 

"No,  I  have  no  mind  beyond  them.'' 

11  1  kiss  your  hands  —  these  little  hands  that  were 
made  to  the  finest  uses  of  life,  and  that  I  shall  fill 
with  honors." 

"  Don't  touch  me,"  warned  Emeline.  "  They  can 
scratch  !" 

The  King  of  Beaver  laughed  aloud.  With  con 
tinued  gentleness  he  explained  to  her  :  "  You  will 
come  to  me.  Gentile  brutes  may  chase  women  like 
savages,  and  maltreat  them  afterwards  ;  but  it  is 
different  with  you  and  me."  He  brought  his  hands 
forward  and  folded  them  upright  on  his  breast. 
"I  have  always  prayed  this  prayer  alone  and  as  a 
solitary  soul  at  twilight.  For  the  first  time  I  shall 
speak  it  aloud  in  the  presence  of  one  who  has  often 
thought  the  same  prayer:  O  God,  since  Thou  hast 
shut  me  up  in  this  world,  I  will  do  the  best  I  can, 
without  fear  or  favor.  When  my  task  is  done,  let 
me  out!" 

He  turned  and  left  her,  as  if  this  had  been  a 
benediction  on  their  meeting,  and  went  from  the 
garden  as  he  usually  went  from  the  Tabernacle. 
Emeline's  heart  and  eyes  seemed  to  overflow  with 
out  any  volition  of  her  own.  It  was  a  kind  of 
spiritual  effervescence  which  she  could  not  control. 
She  sobbed  two  or  three  times  aloud,  and  imme 
diately  ground  her  teeth  at  his  back  as  it  passed  out 

101 


t   /|  t$  H;K  J  K ma    Q  F    BEAVER 

of  sight.  Billy  and  Roxy  were  so  free  from  the 
baleful  power  that  selected  her.  .They  could  chat 
in  peace  under  the  growing  darkness,  they  who  had 
home  and  families,  while  she,  without  a  relative 
except  those  on  Beaver  Island,  or  a  friend  whose 
duty  it  was  to  shelter  her,  must  bear  the  shock  of 
that  ruinous  force. 

The  instinct  that  no  one  could  help  her  but  her 
self  kept  her  silent  when  she  retired  with  Roxy  to 
the  loft-chamber.  Primitive  life  on  Beaver  Island 
settled  to  its  rest  soon  after  the  birds,  and  there  was 
not  a  sound  outside  of  nature's  stirrings  till  morn 
ing,  unless  some  drunken  fishermen  trailed  down 
the  Galilee  road  to  see  what  might  be  inflicted  on 
the  property  of  sleeping  Mormons. 

The  northern  air  blew  fresh  through  gable  win 
dows  of  the  attic,  yet  Emeline  turned  restlessly  on 
her  straw  bed,  and  counted  the  dim  rafters  while 
Roxy  slept.  Finally  she  could  not  lie  still,  and 
slipped  cautiously  out  of  bed,  feeling  dire  need  to 
be  abroad,  running  or  riding  with  all  her  might. 
She  leaned  out  of  a  gable  window,  courting  the 
moist  chill  of  the  starless  night.  While  the  hidden 
landscape  seemed  strangely  dear  to  her,  she  was 
full  of  unspeakable  homesickness  and  longing  for 
she  knew  not  what — a  life  she  had  not  known  and 
could  not  imagine,  some  perfect  friend  who  called 
her  silently  through  space  and  was  able  to  lift  her 
out  of  the  entanglements  of  existence. 

The  regular  throbbing  of  a  horse's  feet  approach 
ing  along  the  road  at  a  brisk  walk  became  quite 

102 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

distinct.  Emeline's  sensations  were  suspended  while 
she  listened.  From  the  direction  of  St.  James  she 
saw  a  figure  on  horseback  coining  between  the  dusky 
parallel  fence  rows.  The  sound  of  walking  ceased 
in  front  of  the  house,  and  presently  another  sound 
crept  barely  as  high  as  the  attic  window.  It  was 
the  cry  of  a  violin,  sweet  and  piercing,  like  some 
celestial  voice.  It  took  her  unawares.  She  fled 
from  it  to  her  place  beside  Koxy  and  covered  her 
ears  with  the  bedclothes. 

Roxy  turned  with  a  yawn  and  aroused  from  sleep. 
She  rose  to  her  elbow  and  drew  in  her  breath, 
giggling.  The  violin  courted  like  an  angel,  finding 
secret  approaches  to  the  girl  who  lay  rigid  with  her 
ears  stopped. 

"Cousin  Eineline!"  whispered  Roxy,  "do  you 
hear  that?" 

"What  is  it?"  inquired  Emeline,  revealing  no 
emotion. 

"  It's  Brother  Strang  serenading." 

"  How  do  you  know?" 

"  Because  he  is  the  only  man  on  Beaver  who  can 
play  the  fiddle  like  that."  Roxy  gave  herself  over 
to  unrestrained  giggling.  "A  man  fifty  years 
old  !" 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  responded  Emeline,  sharply. 

"Don't  believe  he  is  nearly  fifty?  He  told  his 
age  to  the  elders." 

"  I  haven't  a  word  of  praise  for  him,  but  he  isn't 
an  old  man.  He  doesn't  look  more  than  thirty-five." 

"To  hear  that  fiddle  you'd  think  he  wasn't 
103 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

twenty,"  chuckled  Roxy.  "  It's  the  first  time  Broth 
er  Strang  ever  came  serenading  down  this  road." 

He  did  not  stay  long,  but  went,  trailing  music 
deliciously  into  the  distance.  Emeline  knew  how 
he  rode,  with  the  bridle  looped  over  his  bow  arm. 
She  was  quieted  and  lay  in  peace,  sinking  to  sleep 
almost  before  the  faint,  far  notes  could  no  longer  be 
heard. 

From  that  night  her  uncle  Cheeseman's  family 
changed  their  attitude  towards  her.  She  felt  it  as 
a  withdrawal  of  intimacy,  though  it  expressed 
reverential  awe.  Especially  did  her  Mormon  aunt 
Mahala  take  little  tasks  out  of  her  hands  and  wait 
upon  her,  while  her  legal  aunt  looked  at  her  curious 
ly.  It  was  natural  for  Roxy  to  talk  to  Billy  Went- 
worth  across  the  fence,  but  it  was  not  natural  for 
them  to  share  so  much  furtive  laughter,  which 
ceased  when  Emeline  approached.  Uncle  Cheese- 
man  himself  paid  more  attention  to  his  niece  and 
spent  much  time  at  the  table  explaining  to  her  the 
Mormon  situation  on  Beaver  Island,  tracing  the 
colony  back  to  its  secession  from  Brigham  Young's 
party  in  Illinois. 

"  Brother  Strang  was  too  large  for  them,"  said 
her  uncle.  "  He  can  do  anything  he  undertakes  to 
do." 

The  next  Saturday  Emeline  refused  to  go  to  the 
Tabernacle.  She  gave  no  reason  and  the  family 
asked  for  none.  Her  caprices  were  as  the  gambols 
of  the  paschal  lamb,  to  be  indulged  and  overlooked. 
Roxy  offered  to  stay  with  her,  but  she  rejected 

104 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

companionship,  promising  her  uncle  and  aunts  to 
lock  herself  within  the  cabin  and  hide  if  she  saw 
men  approaching  from  any  direction.  The  day  was 
sultry  for  that  climate,  and  of  a  vivid  clearness,  and 
the  sky  dazzled.  Emeline  had  never  met  any  terri 
fying  Gentiles  during  her  stay  on  the  island,  and 
she  felt  quite  secure  in  crossing  the  pasture  and 
taking  to  the  farm  woods  beyond.  Her  uncle's  cows 
had  worn  a  path  which  descended  to  a  run  with 
partially  grass-lined  channel.  Beaver  Island  was 
full  of  brooks  and  springs.  The  children  had  placed 
stepping-stones  across  this  one.  She  was  vaguely 
happy,  seeing  the  water  swirl  below  her  feet,  hear 
ing  the  cattle  breathe  at  their  grazing;  though  in 
the  path  or  on  the  log  which  she  found  at  the  edge 
of  the  woods  her  face  kept  turning  towards  the 
town  of  St.  James,  as  the  faces  of  the  faithful  turn 
towards  Mecca.  It  was  childish  to  think  of  escaping 
the  King  of  Beaver  by  merely  staying  away  from 
his  exhortations.  Emeline  knew  she  was  only 
parleying. 

The  green  silence  should  have  helped  her  to  think, 
but  she  found  herself  waiting — and  doing  nothing 
but  waiting— for  what  might  happen  next.  She 
likened  herself  to  a  hunted  rabbit  palpitating  in 
cover,  unable  to  reach  any  place  of  safety  yet 
grateful  for  a  moment's  breathing.  Wheels  rolled 
southward  along  the  Galilee  road.  Meeting  was 
out.  She  had  the  caprice  to  remain  where  she  was 
when  the  family  wagon  arrived,  for  it  had  been  too 
warm  to  walk  to  the  Tabernacle.  Roxy's  voice 

105 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

called  her,  and  as  she  answered,  Roxy  skipped 
across  the  brook  and  ran  to  her. 

"  Cousin  Emeline,"  the  breathless  girl  announced, 
"  here  comes  Mary  French  to  see  you !" 

Emeline  stiffened  upon  the  log. 

"Where?" 

Roxy  glanced  behind  at  a  figure  following  her 
across  the  meadow. 

"What  does  she  want  of  me?"  inquired  Emeline. 
"If  she  came  home  with  the  family,  it  was  not 
necessary  to  call  me." 

"  She  drove  by  herself.  She  says  Brother  Strang 
sent  her  to  you." 

Emeline  stood  up  as  the  Prophet's  youngest  wife 
entered  that  leafy  silence.  Roxy,  forgetting  that 
these  two  had  never  met  before,  slipped  away  and 
left  them.  They  looked  at  each  other. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mrs.  Strang?"  spoke  Emeline. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Miss  Cheeseman?"  spoke  Mary 
French. 

"Will  you  sit  down  on  this  log?" 

"  Thank  you." 

Mary  French  had  more  flesh  and  blood  than  Eme 
line.  She  was  larger  and  of  a  warmer  and  browner 
tint — that  type  of  brunette  with  startling  black 
hair  which  breaks  into  a  floss  of  little  curls,  and 
with  unexpected  blue  eyes.  Her  full  lips  made  a 
bud,  and  it  only  half  bloomed  when  she  smiled. 
From  crown  to  slipper  she  was  a  ripe  and  supple 
woman.  Though  clad,  like  Emeline,  in  black,  her 
garment  was  a  transparent  texture  over  white,  and 

106 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

she  held  a  parasol  with  crimson  lining  behind  her 
head.     She  had  left  her  bonnet  in  her  conveyance. 

"My  husband,"  said  Mary  French,  quiet  and 
smiling,  "  sent  me  to  tell  you  that  you  will  be  wel 
comed  into  our  family." 

Emeline  looked  her  in  the  eyes.  The  Prophet's 
wife  had  the  most  unblenching  smiling  gaze  she  had 
ever  encountered. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  enter  your  family.  I  am  not 
a  Mormon." 

"  He  will  make  you  wish  it.  I  was  not  a  Mor 
mon." 

They  sat  silent,  the  trees  stirring  around  them. 

"  I  do  not  understand  it,"  said  Emeline.  "  How 
can  you  come  to  me  with  such  a  message?" 

"  I  can  do  it  as  you  can  do  it  when  your  turn 
comes." 

Emeline  looked  at  Mary  French  as  if  she  had  been 
stabbed. 

"  It  hurts,  doesn't  it?"  said  Mary  French.  "  But 
wait  till  he  seems  to  you  a  great  strong  archangel 
— an  archangel  with  only  the  weakness  of  dabbling 
his  wings  in  the  dirt — and  you  will  withhold  from 
him  nothing,  no  one,  that  may  be  of  use  to  him. 
If  he  wants  to  put  me  by  for  a  while,  it  is  his  will. 
You  cannot  take  my  place.  I  cannot  fill  yours." 

"  Oh,  don't!"  gasped  Emeline.  "I  am  not  that 
sort  of  woman — I  should  kill!" 

"  That  is  because  you  have  not  lived  with  him. 
I  would  rather  have  him  make  me  suffer  than  not 
have  him  at  all." 

107 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

"  Oh,  don't !  I  can't  bear  it !  Help  me!"  prayed 
Emeline,  stretching  her  hands  to  the  wife. 

Mary  French  met  her  with  one  hand  and  the 
unflinching  smile.  Her  flesh  was  firm  and  warm, 
while  Emeline's  was  cold  and  quivering. 

"  You  have  never  loved  anybody,  have  you?" 

"No." 

"But  you  have  thought  you  did?" 

"  I  was  engaged  before  I  came  here." 

"And  the  engagement  is  broken?" 

"  We  quarrelled." 

Mary  French  breathed  deeply. 

"  You  will  forget  it  here.  He  can  draw  the  very 
soul  out  of  your  body." 

"He  cannot!"  flashed  Emeline. 

"  Some  one  will  kill  him  yet.  He  is  not  under 
stood  at  his  best,  and  he  cannot  endure  defeat  of 
any  kind.  When  you  come  into  the  family  you 
must  guard  him  from  his  enemies  as  I  have  constant 
ly  guarded  him.  If  you  ever  let  a  hair  of  his  head 
be  harmed — then  I  shall  hate  you!" 

"  Mrs.  Strang,  do  you  come  here  to  push  me  too? 
My  uncle's  family,  everything,  all  are  closing  around 
me!  Why  don't  you  help  me?  I  loathe — I  loathe 
your  husband!" 

Mary  French  rose,  her  smile  changing  only  to 
express  deep  tenderness. 

"You  are  a  good  girl, dear.  I  can  myself  feel 
your  charm.  I  was  not  so  self-denying.  In  my 
fierce  young  girlhood  I  would  have  removed  a 
rival.  But  since  you  ask  me,  I  will  do  all  I  can 

108 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

for  you  in  the  way  you  desire.  My  errand  is 
done.  Good-by." 

"  Good-by,"  said  Emeline,  restraining  herself. 

She  sat  watching  the  elastic  shape  under  the 
parasol  move  with  its  shadow  across  the  field.  She 
had  not  a  doubt  until  Mary  French  was  gone ;  then 
the  deep  skill  of  the  Prophet's  wife  with  rivals 
sprung  out  like  a  distortion  of  nature. 

Emeline  had  nearly  three  weeks  in  which  to  in 
trench  herself  with  doubts  and  defences.  She  felt 
at  first  surprised  and  relieved.  When  her  second 
absence  from  the  Tabernacle  was  passed  over  in 
silence  she  found  in  her  nature  an  unaccountable 
pique,  which  steadly  grew  to  unrest.  She  ventured 
and  turned  back  on  the  woods  path  leading  to  St. 
James  many  times,  each  time  daring  farther.  The 
impulse  to  go  to  St.  James  came  on  her  at  waking, 
and  she  resisted  through  busy  hours  of  the  day. 
But  the  family  often  had  tasks  from  which  Emeline 
was  free,  and  when  the  desire  grew  unendurable  she 
knelt  at  her  secluded  bedside  in  the  loft,  trying  to 
bring  order  out  of  her  confused  thoughts.  She  re 
viewed  her  quarrel  with  her  lover,  and  took  blame 
for  his  desertion.  The  grievance  which  had  seemed 
so  great  to  her  before  she  came  to  Beaver  Island 
dwindled,  and  his  personality  with  it.  In  self-de 
fence  she  coaxed  her  fancy,  pretending  that  James 
Arnold  was  too  good  for  her.  It  was  well  he  had 
found  it  out.  But  because  he  was  too  good  for  her 
she  ought  to  go  on  being  fond  of  him  at  a  safe 
distance,  undetected  by  him,  and  discreetly  cherish- 

109 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

ing  his  large  blond  image  as  her  ideal  of  manhood. 
If  she  had  not  been  bred  in  horror  of  Catholics,  the 
cloister  at  this  time  would  have  occurred  to  her  as 
her  only  safe  refuge. 

These  secret  rites  in  her  bedroom  being  ended, 
and  Roxy  diverted  from  her  movements,  she  slipped 
off  into  the  woods  path,  sometimes  running  breath 
lessly  towards  St.  James. 

The  impetus  which  carried  Emeline  increased 
with  each  journey.  At  first  she  was  able  to  check 
it  in  the  woods  depths,  but  it  finally  drove  her  until 
the  village  houses  were  in  sight. 

When  this  at  last  happened,  and  she  stood  gazing, 
fascinated,  down  the  tunnel  of  forest  path,  the 
King  of  Beaver  spoke  behind  her. 

Emeline  screamed  in  terror  and  took  hold  of  a  bush, 
to  make  it  a  support  and  a  veil. 

"  Have  I  been  a  patient  man?"  he  inquired,  stand 
ing  between  her  and  her  uncle's  house.  "  I  waited 
for  you  to  come  to  me." 

"  I  am  obliged  to  go  somewhere,"  said  Emeline, 
plucking  the  leaves  and  unsteadily  shifting  her  eyes 
about  his  feet.  "  I  cannot  stay  on  the  farm  all  the 
time."  Through  numbness  she  felt  the  pricking  of 
a  sharp  rapture. 

The  King  of  Beaver  smiled,  seeing  betrayed  in 
her  face  the  very  vertigo  of  joy. 

"  You  will  give  yourself  to  me  now?"  he  winning- 
ly  begged,  venturing  out-stretched  hands.  "You 
have  felt  the  need  as  I  have?  Do  you  think  the 
days  have  been  easy  to  me?  When  you  were  on 

110 


"  'YOU  WILL   GIVE   YOURSELF   TO   ME   NOW  ?'  " 


THE    KIXG    OF    BEAVER 

your  knees  I  was  on  my  knees  too.  Every  day 
you  came  in  this  direction  I  came  as  far  as  I  dared, 
to  meet  you.  Are  the  obstacles  all  passed?" 

"  No,"  said  Emeline. 

He  was  making  her  ask  herself  that  most  insidious 
question,  "  Why  could  not  the  other  have  been  like 
this?" 

"  Tell  me — can  you  say,  '  I  hate  you,'  now?" 

"  No,"  said  Emeline. 

"  I  have  grown  to  be  a  better  man  since  you  said 
you  hated  me.  The  miracle  cannot  be  forced. 
Next  time  ?"  He  spoke  wistfully. 

"No,"  Emeline  answered,  holding  to  the  bush. 
She  kept  her  eyes  on  the  ground  while  he  talked, 
and  glanced  up  when  she  replied.  He  stood  with 
his  hat  off.  The  flakes  of  sun  touched  his  head  and 
the  fair  skin  of  his  forehead. 

He  moved  towards  Emeline,  and  she  retreated 
around  the  bush.  Without  hesitating  he  passed, 
making  a  salutation,  and  went  on  by  himself  to 
St.  James.  She  watched  his  rapid  military  walk 
furtively,  her  eyebrows  crouching,  her  lips  rippling 
with  passionate  tremors.  Then  she  took  to  flight 
homeward,  her  skirts  swishing  through  the  woods 
with  a  rush  like  the  wind.  The  rebound  was  as 
violent  as  the  tension  had  been. 

There  were  few  festivities  on  Beaver  Island,  the 
Mormon  families  living  a  pastoral  life,  many  of 
them  yet  taxed  by  the  struggle  for  existence.  Crops 
shot  up  rank  and  strong  in  the  short  Northern 
summer.  Soft  cloud  masses  sailed  over  the  island, 

ill 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

and  rain-storms  marched  across  it  with  drums  of 
thunder  which  sent  reverberations  along  the  water 
world.  Or  fogs  rolled  in,  muffling  and  obliterating 
homesteads. 

Emeline  stayed  in  the  house,  busying  herself  with 
the  monotonous  duties  of  the  family  three  days. 
She  was  determined  never  to  go  into  the  woods  path 
again  without  Koxy.  The  fourth  day  a  gray  fog 
gave  her  no  choice  but  imprisonment.  It  had  the 
acrid  tang  of  smoke  from  fires  burning  on  the  main 
land.  About  nightfall  the  west  wind  rose  and  blew 
it  back,  revealing  a  land  mantled  with  condensed 
drops. 

Emeline  put  on  her  hat  and  shawl  to  walk  around 
in  the  twilight.  The  other  young  creatures  of  the 
house  were  glad  to  be  out  also,  and  Roxy  and  Roxy's 
lover  talked  across  the  fence.  Emeline  felt  fortified 
against  the  path  through  the  woods  at  night;  yet 
her  feet  turned  in  that  direction,  and  as  certainly 
as  water  seeks  its  level  she  found  herself  on  the 
moist  elastic  track.  Cow-bells  on  the  farm  sounded 
fainter  and  farther.  A  gloom  of  trees  massed 
around  her,  and  the  forest  gave  up  all  its  perfume 
to  the  dampness. 

At  every  step  she  meant  to  turn  back,  though  a 
recklessness  of  night  and  of  meeting  the  King  of 
Beaver  grew  upon  her.  Thus,  without  any  reason 
able  excuse  for  her  presence  there,  she  met  Mary 
French. 

"  Is  that  you,  Miss  Cheeseman  ?"  panted  the  Proph 
et's  youngest  wife. 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

Emeline  confessed  her  identity. 

"  I  was  coming  for  you,  but  it  is  fortunate  you 
are  so  far  on  the  way.  There  is  a  steamboat  at  the 
dock,  and  it  will  go  out  in  half  an  hour.  I  could 
not  get  away  sooner  to  tell  you."  Mary  French 
breathed  heavily  from  running.  "  When  the  steam 
boat  came  in  the  captain  sent  for  my  husband,  as 
the  captains  always  do.  I  went  with  him:  he 
knows  how  I  dread  to  have  him  go  alone  upon  a 
boat  since  an  attempt  was  made  last  year  to  kidnap 
him.  But  this  time  there  was  another  reason,  for 
I  have  been  watching.  And  sure  enough,  a  young 
man  was  on  the  steamboat  inquiring  where  he 
could  find  you.  His  name  is  James  Arnold.  The 
captain  asked  my  husband  to  direct  him  to  you. 
You  will  readily  understand  why  he  did  not  find 
you.  Come  at  once!" 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Emeline. 

"  But  you  wanted  me  to  help  you,  and  I  have 
been  trying  to  do  it.  We  easily  learned  by  letter 
from  our  friends  in  Detroit  who  your  lover  was. 
My  husband  had  me  do  that:  he  wanted  to  know. 
Then  without  his  knowledge  I  stooped  to  write  an 
anonymous  letter." 

"  To  James  Arnold?" 

"Yes." 

"About  me?" 

"  About  you." 

"What  did  you  tell  him?" 

"  I  said  you  were  exposed  to  great  danger  on 
Beaver  Island,  among  the  Mormons,  and  if  you  had 
H  113 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

any  interested  friend  it  was  time  for  him  to  inter 
fere." 

"  And  that  brought  him  here?" 

"  I  am  sure  it  did.  He  was  keenly  disappointed 
at  not  finding  you." 

"  But  why  didn't  he  come  to  the  farm  ?" 

"  My  husband  prevented  that.  He  said  you  were 
on  Beaver  Island  three  or  four  weeks  ago,  but  you 
were  now  in  the  Fairy  Isle.  It  was  no  lie.  He 
spoke  in  parables,  but  the  other  heard  him  literally. 
We  let  him  inquire  of  people  in  St.  James.  But 
no  one  had  seen  you  since  the  Saturday  you  came 
to  the  Tabernacle.  So  he  is  going  back  to  Mackinac 
to  seek  you.  Your  life  will  be  decided  in  a  quarter 
of  an  hour.  Will  you  go  on  that  steamboat?" 

"  Throw  myself  on  the  mercy  of  a  man  who  dared 
— dared  to  break  his  engagement,  and  who  ought 
to  be  punished  and  put  on  probation,  and  then  re 
fused!  No,  I  cannot!" 

"  The  minutes  are  slipping  away." 

"  Besides,  I  have  nothing  with  me  but  the  clothes 
I  have  on.  And  my  uncle's  family — think  of  my 
uncle's  family !" 

"  You  can  write  to  your  uncle  and  have  him  send 
your  baggage.  I  dare  not  carry  any  messages. 
But  I  thought  of  what  you  would  need  to-night, 
and  put  some  things  and  some  money  in  this  satchel. 
They  were  mine.  Keep  them  all." 

Emeline  took  hold  of  the  bag  which  Mary  French 
shoved  in  her  hand.  Their  faces  were  indistinct  to 
each  other. 

114 


"'LET  ME   LOOSE  !'   STRUGGLED   EMELINE 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

"  For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  have  deceived  my 
husband !" 

"Oh,  what  shall  I  do— what  shall  I  do?"  cried 
the  girl. 

A  steamer  whistle  at  St.  James  dock  sent  its  bel 
low  rebounding  from  tree  to  tree  in  the  woods. 
Emeline  seized  Mary  French  and  kissed  her  violently 
on  both  cheeks.  She  snatched  the  bag  and  flew 
towards  St.  James. 

"  Stop !"  commanded  the  Prophet's  wife. 

She  ran  in  pursuit,  catching  Emeline  by  the 
shoulders. 

"You  sha'n't  go!  What  am  I  doing?  Maybe 
robbing  him  of  what  is  necessary  to  his  highest 
success!  I  am  a  fool — to  think  he  might  turn  back 
to  me  for  consolation  when  you  are  gone — God  for 
give  me  such  silly  fondness!  I  can't  have  a  secret 
between  him  and  myself — I  will  tell  him!  You 
shall  not  go — and  cause  him  a  mortal  hurt!  Wait! 
— stop! — the  boat  is  gone!  It's  too  late!" 

"Let  me  loose!"  struggled  Emeline,  wrenching 
herself  away. 

She  ran  on  through  the  woods,  and  Mary  French, 
snatching  at  garments  which  eluded  her,  stumbled 
and  fell  on  the  damp  path,  gathering  dead  leaves 
under  her  palms.  The  steamer's  prolonged  bellow 
covered  her  voice. 

Candles  were  lighted  in  St.  James.  The  Taber 
nacle  spread  itself  like  a  great  circular  web  dark 
with  moisture.  Emeline  was  conscious  of  running 
across  the  gang-plank  as  a  sailor  stooped  to  draw  it 

115 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

in.  The  bell  was  ringing  and  the  boat  was  already 
in  motion.  It  sidled  and  backed  away  from  its 
moorings. 

Emeline  knelt  panting  at  the  rail  on  the  forward 
deck.  A  flambeau  fastened  to  the  wharf  bowed  its 
light  to  the  wind  as  the  boat  swung  about,  showing 
the  King  of  Beaver  smiling  and  waving  his  hand  in 
farewell.  He  did  not  see  Emeline.  His  farewell 
was  for  the  man  whom  he  had  sent  away  without 
her.  His  golden  hair  and  beard  and  blue  eyes 
floated  into  Emeline's  past  as  the  steamer  receded, 
the  powerful  face  and  lithe  figure  first  losing  their 
identity,  and  then  merging  into  night.  "What  if  it 
was  true  that  she  was  robbing  both  him  and  herself 
of  the  best  life,  as  Mary  French  was  smitten  to  be 
lieve  at  the  last  moment?  Her  Gentile  gorge  rose 
against  him,  and  the  traditions  of  a  thousand  years 
warred  in  her  with  nature ;  yet  she  stretched  her 
hands  towards  him  in  the  darkness. 

Then  she  heard  a  familiar  voice,  and  knew  that 
the  old  order  of  things  was  returning,  while  Beaver 
Island,  like  a  dream,  went  silently  down  upon  the 
waters. 

Some  }^ears  later,  in  the  '50's,  Emeline,  sitting 
opposite  her  husband  at  the  breakfast-table,  heard 
him  announce  from  the  morning  paper: 

"  Murder  of  King  Strang,  the  Mormon  Prophet 
of  Beaver  Island."  All  the  details  of  the  affair, 
even  the  track  of  the  bullets  which  crashed  into 
that  golden  head,  were  mercilessly  printed.  The 
reader,  surprised  by  a  sob,  dropped  his  paper. 

116 


THE    KING    OF    BEAVER 

"What!     Are  you  crying,  Mrs.  Arnold?" 

"  It  was  so  cruel !"  sobbed  Emeline.     "  And  Billy 

Wentworth,  like  a  savage,  helped  to  do  it!" 

"  He  had  provocation,  no  doubt,  though  it  is  a 

horrid  deed.     Perhaps  I  owe  the  King  of  Beaver 

the  tribute  of  a  tear.     He  befogged  me  considerably 

the  only  time  I  ever  met  him." 

"  You  see  only  his  evil.    But  I  see  what  he  was 

to  Mary  French  and  the  others." 
"His  bereaved  widows?" 
"  The  ones  who  believed  in  his  best." 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

A  MAGNIFICENT  fountain  of  flame,  visible 
far  out  on  the  starlit  lake,  spurted  from  the 
north  end  of  Beaver  Island.  It  was  the 
temple,  in  which  the  Mormon  people  had  wor 
shipped  for  the  last  time,  sending  sparks  and  illu 
mined  vapor  to  the  zenith.  The  village  of  St. 
James  was  partly  in  ashes,  and  a  blue  pallor  of 
smoke  hung  dimly  over  nearly  every  hill  and  hollow, 
for  Gentile  fishermen  crazed  with  drink  and  power 
and  long  arrears  of  grievances  had  carried  torch  and 
axe  from  farm  to  farm.  Until  noon  of  that  day  all 
householding  families  had  been  driven  to  huddle 
with  their  cattle  around  the  harbor  dock  and  forced 
to  make  pens  for  the  cattle  of  lumber  which  had 
been  piled  there  for  transportation.  Unresisting 
as  sheep  they  let  themselves  be  shipped  on  four 
small  armed  steamers  sent  by  their  enemies  to  carry 
them  into  exile.  Not  one  of  the  twelve  elders  who 
had  received  the  last  instructions  of  their  murdered 
king  rose  up  to  organize  any  defence.  Scarcely  a 
month  had  passed  since  his  wounding  unto  death, 
and  his  withdrawal,  like  Arthur,  in  the  arms  of 
weeping  women  to  that  spot  in  Wisconsin  where 

118 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

he  had  found  his  sacred  Voree  plates  or  tables  of  the 
law.  Scarcely  two  weeks  had  passed  since  news 
came  back  of  his  burial  there.  And  already  the 
Mormon  settlement  was  swept  off  Beaver  Island. 

Used  to  border  warfare  and  to  following  their 
dominating  prophet  to  victory,  they  yet  seemed 
unable  to  strike  a  blow  without  him.  Such  non- 
resistance  procured  them  nothing  but  contempt. 
They  even  submitted  to  being  compelled  to  destroy 
a  cairn  raised  over  the  grave  of  one  considered  a 
malefactor,  carrying  the  heap  stone  by  stone  to 
throw  into  the  lake,  Gentiles  standing  over  them 
like  Egyptian  masters. 

Little  waves  ran  in  rows  of  light,  washing  against 
the  point  on  the  north  side  of  the  landlocked  har 
bor.  A  primrose  star  was  there  struggling  aloft  at 
the  top  of  a  rough  rock  tower.  It  was  the  fish-oil 
flame  of  Beaver  lamp,  and  the  keeper  sat  on  his 
doorsill  at  the  bottom  of  the  light-house  with  his 
wife  beside  him. 

The  lowing  of  cattle  missing  their  usual  evening 
tendance  came  across  from  the  dock,  a  mournful 
accompaniment  to  the  distant  roaring  of  fire  and 
falling  of  timbers. 

"  Do  you  realize,  Ludlow,"  the  young  woman  in 
quired,  slipping  her  hand  into  her  husband's,  "that 
I  am  now  the  only  Mormon  on  Beaver  Island?" 

"  You  never  were  a  very  good  Mormon,  Cecilia. 
You  didn't  like  the  breed  any  better  than  I  did, 
though  there  were  good  people  among  them." 

"Will  they  lose  all  their  cattle,  Ludlow?" 
119 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

"  The  cattle  are  safe  enough,"  he  laughed.  "  The 
men  that  are  doing  this  transporting  will  take  the 
cattle.  None  of  our  Mormon  friends  will  ever  see 
a  hoof  from  Beaver  Island  again." 

"  But  it  seems  robbery  to  drive  them  off  and  seize 
their  property." 

"  That's  the  way  King  Strang  took  Beaver  from 
the  Gentiles  in  the  first  place.  Mormons  and  Gen 
tiles  can't  live  together." 

"  We  can." 

"  I  told  you  that  you  were  a  poor  Mormon,  Cecilia. 
And  from  first  to  last  I  opposed  my  family's  enter 
ing  the  community.  Tithes  and  meddling  sent  my 
father  out  of  it  a  poor  man.  But  I'm  glad  he  went 
before  this ;  and  your  people,  too." 

She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "  Oh  yes!  They're  safe 
in  Green  Bay.  I  couldn't  endure  to  have  them  on 
those  steamers  going  down  the  lake  to-night.  What 
will  become  of  the  community,  Ludlow?" 

"  God  knows.  They'll  be  landed  at  Chicago  and 
turned  adrift  on  the  world.  I'm  glad  they're  away 
from  here.  I've  no  cause  to  love  them,  but  I  was 
afraid  they  would  be  butchered  like  sheep.  Your 
father  and  my  father,  if  they  had  still  been  elders 
on  the  island,  wouldn't  have  submitted,  as  these 
folks  did,  to  abuse  and  exile  and  the  loss  of  every 
thing  they  had  in  the  world.  I  can't  understand 
it  of  some  of  them.  There  was  Jim  Baker,  for  in 
stance  ;  I'd  have  sworn  he  would  fight." 

"I  can  understand  why  he  didn't.  He  hasn't 
taken  any  interest  since  his  second  marriage." 

120 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

"  Now,  that  was  a  nice  piece  of  work !  I  always 
liked  Jim  the  best  of  any  of  the  young  men  until 
he  did  that.  And  what  inducement  was  there  in 
the  woman?" 

The  light-house  keeper's  wife  fired  up.  "  "What 
inducement  there  was  for  him  ever  to  marry  Ro- 
sanne  I  couldn't  see.  And  I  know  Elizabeth  Aiken 
loved  him  when  we  were  girls  together." 

"  And  didn't  Rosanne  F 

"  Oh — Rosanne!  A  roly-poly  spoiled  young  one, 
that  never  will  be  a  woman!  Elizabeth  is  noble." 

"  You're  fond  of  Elizabeth  because  she  was  wit 
ness  to  our  secret  marriage  when  King  Strang 
wouldn't  let  me  have  you.  I  liked  Jim  for  the 
same  reason.  Do  you  mind  how  we  four  slipped 
one  at  a  time  up  the  back  stairs  in  my  father's  house 
that  night,  while  the  young  folks  were  dancing  be 
low?" 

"  I  mind  we  picked  Elizabeth  because  Rosanne 
would  be  sure  to  blab,  even  if  she  had  to  suffer  her 
self  for  it.  How  scared  the  poor  elder  was !" 

"  "We  did  him  a  good  turn  when  we  got  him  to 
marry  us.  He'd  be  on  one  of  the  steamers  bound 
for  nowhere,  to-night,  instead  of  snug  at  Green  Bay, 
if  we  hadn't  started  him  on  the  road  to  what  King 
Strang  called  disaffection." 

The  light-house  keeper  jumped  up  and  ran  out  on 
the  point,  his  wife  following  him  in  nervous  dread. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  LudlowF 

Their  feet  crunched  gravel  and  paused  where  rip 
ples  still  ran  in,  endlessly  bringing  lines  of  dimmer 

121 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

and  dimmer  light.  A  rocking  boat  was  tied  to  a 
stake.  Anchored  and  bare-masted,  farther  out  in 
the  mouth  of  the  bay,  a  fishing-smack  tilted  slight 
ly  in  rhythmic  motion.  While  they  stood  a  touch 
of  crimson  replaced  the  sky  light  in  the  water,  and 
great  blots  like  blood  soaking  into  the  bay  were 
reflected  from  the  fire.  The  burning  temple  now 
seemed  to  rise  a  lofty  tower  of  flame  against  the 
horizon.  Figures  could  be  seen  passing  back  and 
forth  in  front  of  it,  and  shouts  of  fishermen  came 
down  the  peninsula.  The  King's  printing-office 
where  the  Northern  Islander  was  once  issued  as  a 
daily  had  smouldered  down  out  of  the  way.  It  was 
the  first  place  to  which  they  had  set  torch. 

"  I  thought  I  heard  some  one  running  up  the  sail 
on  our  sail-boat,"  said  the  light-house  keeper.  "  No 
telling  what  these  fellows  may  do.  If  they  go  to 
meddling  with  me  in  my  little  Government  office, 
they'll  find  me  as  stubborn  as  the  Mormons  did." 

"  Oh,  Ludlow,  look  at  the  tabernacle,  like  a  big 
red-hot  cheese-box  on  the  high  ground!  Think  of 
the  coronation  there  on  the  first  King's  Day !" 

The  light-house  keeper's  wife  was  again  in  im 
agination  a  long-limbed  girl  of  fifteen,  crowding 
into  the  temple  to  witness  such  a  ceremony  as  was 
celebrated  on  no  other  spot  of  the  New  World. 
The  King  of  Beaver,  in  a  crimson  robe,  walked  the 
temple  aisle,  followed  by  his  council,  his  twelve 
elders,  and  seventy  ministers  of  the  minor  order. 
In  the  presence  of  a  hushed  multitude  he  was 
anointed,  and  a  crown  with  a  cluster  of  projecting 

122 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

stars  was  set  on  his  golden  head.  Hails  and  shouts, 
music  of  marching  singers  and  the  strewing  of 
flowers  went  before  him  into  the  leafy  July  woods. 
Thus  King's  Day  was  established  and  annually  ob 
served  on  the  8th  of  July.  It  began  with  burnt- 
offerings.  The  head  of  each  family  was  required 
to  bring  a  chicken.  A  heifer  was  killed  and  care 
fully  cut  up  without  breaking  a  bone;  and,  while 
the  smoke  of  sacrifice  arose,  feasting  and  dancing 
began,  and  lasted  until  sunset.  Firstlings  of  flocks 
and  the  first-fruits  of  orchard  and  field  were  or 
dained  the  King's;  and  he  also  claimed  one-tenth 
of  each  man's  possessions.  The  Mosaic  law  was  set 
up  in  Beaver  Island,  even  to  the  stoning  of  rebellious 
children. 

The  smoke  of  a  sacrificed  people  was  now  reeking 
on  Beaver.  This  singular  man's  French  ancestry 
— for  he  was  descended  from  Henri  de  L'Estrange, 
who  came  to  the  New  World  with  the  Duke  of 
York — doubtless  gave  him  the  passion  for  pictu- 
resqueness  and  the  spiritual  grasp  on  his  isolated 
kingdom  which  keeps  him  still  a  notable  and  unfor- 
gotten  figure. 

"  It  makes  me  feel  bad  to  see  so  much  destruction," 
the  young  man  said  to  his  wife;  "though  I  offered 
to  go  with  Billy  "Wentworth  to  shoot  Strang  if  no 
body  else  was  willing.  I  knew  I  was  marked,  and 
sooner  or  later  I  would  disappear  if  he  continued 
to  govern  this  island.  But  with  all  his  faults  he 
was  a  man.  He  could  fight;  and  whip.  He'd  have 
sunk  every  steamer  in  the  harbor  to-day." 

123 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

"It's  heavy  on  my  heart,  Ludlow — it's  dreadful! 
Neighbors  and  friends  that  we  shall  never  see 
again!" 

The  young  man  caught  his  wife  by  the  arm. 
They  both  heard  the  swift  beat  of  footsteps  flying 
down  the  peninsula.  Cecilia  drew  in  her  breath 
and  crowded  against  her  husband.  A  figure  came 
into  view  and  identified  itself,  leaping  in  bisected 
draperies  across  an  open  space  to  the  light-house 
door. 

"Why,  Eosanne!"  exclaimed  the  keeper's  wife. 
She  continued  to  say  "Why,  Rosanne!  Why,  Ro- 
sanne  Baker!"  after  she  had  herself  run  into  the 
house  and  lighted  a  candle. 

She  set  the  candle  on  the  chimney.  It  showed 
her  rock-built  domicile,  plain  but  dignified,  like  the 
hollow  of  a  cavern,  with  blue  china  on  the  cupboard 
shelves  and  a  spinning-wheel  standing  by  the  north 
wall.  A  corner  staircase  led  to  the  second  story 
of  the  tower,  and  on  its  lowest  step  the  fugitive 
dropped  down,  weeping  and  panting.  She  was  pe 
culiarly  dressed  in  the  calico  bloomers  which  the 
King  of  Beaver  had  latterly  decreed  for  the  women 
of  his  kingdom.  Her  trim  legs  and  little  feet,  cased 
in  strong  shoes,  appeared  below  the  baggy  trousers. 
The  upper  part  of  her  person,  her  almond  eyes, 
round  curves  and  features  were  full  of  Oriental 
suggestions.  Some  sweet  inmate  of  a  harem  might 
so  have  materialized,  bruising  her  softness  against 
the  hard  stair. 

"Why,  Kosanne  Baker!"  her  hostess  reiterated. 
124 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

Cecilia  did  not  wear  bloomers.  She  stood  erect  in 
petticoats.  "  I  thought  you  went  on  one  of  the 
boats!" 

"I  didn't,"  sobbed  Eosanne.  "When  they  were 
crowding  us  on  I  slipped  among  the  lumber  piles 
and  hid.  I've  been  hid  all  day,  lying  flat  be 
tween  boards —  on  top  where  they  couldn't  see 
me." 

"Suppose  the  lumber  had  been  set  on  fire,  too! 
And  you  haven't  had  anything  to  eat?" 

"I  don't  want  to  eat.  I'm  only  frightened  to 
death  at  the  wicked  Gentiles  burning  the  island. 
I  couldn't  stay  there  all  night,  so  I  got  down  and 
ran  to  your  house." 

"Of  course,  you  poor  child!  But,  Kosanne, 
where's  your  husband?" 

The  trembling  creature  stiffened  herself  and 
looked  at  Cecilia  out  of  the  corners  of  her  long 
eyes.  "He's  with  Elizabeth  Aiken." 

The  only  wife  of  one  husband  did  not  know  how 
to  take  hold  of  this  subject. 

"But  your  father  was  there,"  she  suggested. 
"  How  could  you  leave  your  father  and  run  the  risk 
of  never  seeing  him  again  ?" 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  never  see  him  again.  He  said 
he  was  so  discouraged  he  didn't  care  what  became 
of  any  of  us." 

Cecilia  was  going  to  plead  the  cause  of  domestic 
affection  further,  but  she  saw  that  four  step-mothers 
could  easily  be  given  up.  She  turned  helplessly  to 
her  husband  who  stood  in  the  door. 

125 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

"Poor  thing!  Ludlow,  what  in  the  world  shall 
we  do?" 

"  Put  her  to  bed." 

"  Of  course,  Ludlow.  But  will  anybody  hurt  you 
to-morrow  ?" 

"  There  are  two  good  guns  on  the  rack  over  the 
chimney.  I  don't  think  anybody  will  hurt  me  or 
her  either,  to-morrow." 

"  Kosanne,  my  dear,"  said  Cecilia,  trying  to  lift 
the  relaxed  soft  body  and  to  open  the  stairway  door 
behind  her.  "  Come  up  with  me  right  off.  I  think 
you  better  be  where  people  cannot  look  in  at  us." 

Rosanne  yielded  and  stumbled  to  her  feet,  cling 
ing  to  her  friend.  When  they  disappeared  the 
young  man  heard  her  through  the  stairway  en 
closure  sobbing  with  convulsive  gasps: 

"I  hate  Elizabeth  Aiken!  I  wish  they  would 
kill  Elizabeth  Aiken !  I  hate  her— I  hate  her!" 

The  lighthouse -keeper  sat  down  again  on  his 
doorstep  and  faced  the  prospect  of  taking  care  of  a 
homeless  Mormon.  It  appeared  to  him  that  his 
wife  had  not  warmly  enough  welcomed  her  or  met 
the  situation  with  that  recklessness  one  needed  on 
Beaver  Island.  The  tabernacle  began  to  burn 
lower,  brands  streaming  away  in  the  current  which 
a  fire  makes.  It  was  strange  to  be  more  conscious 
of  inland  doings  than  of  that  vast  unsalted  sea  so 
near  him,  which  moistened  his  hair  with  vaporous 
drifts  through  the  darkness.  The  garnet  redness 
of  the  temple  shed  a  huger  amphitheatre  of  shine 
around  itself.  A  taste  of  acrid  smoke  was  on  his 

126 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

lips.  He  was  considering  that  drunken  fishermen 
might  presently  begin  to  rove,  and  he  would  be 
wiser  to  go  in  and  shut  the  house  and  put  out  his 
candle,  when  by  stealthy  approaches  around  the 
lighthouse  two  persons  stood  before  him. 

"  Is  Ludlow  here  ?"  inquired  a  voice  which  he 
knew. 

"  I'm  here,  Jim  !  Are  all  the  Mormons  coming 
back  ?" 

"  Is  Rosanne  in  your  house  ?" 

"  Rosanne  is  here  ;  up-stairs  with  Cecilia.  Come 
inside,  Jim.  Have  you  Elizabeth  with  you  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  Elizabeth  with  me." 

The  three  entered  together.  Ludlow  shut  the 
door  and  dropped  an  iron  bar  across  it.  The  young 
men  standing  opposite  were  of  nearly  the  same  age  ; 
but  one  was  fearless  and  free  and  the  other  harassed 
and  haggard.  Out-door  labor  and  the  skill  of  the 
fisheries  had  given  to  both  depth  of  chest  and  clean, 
muscular  limbs.  But  James  Baker  had  the  des 
perate  and  hunted  look  of  a  fugitive  from  justice. 
He  was  fair,  of  the  strong-featured,  blue  -eyed  type 
that  has  pale  chestnut-colored  hair  clinging  close 
to  a  well-domed  head. 

"  Yes,  Rosanne  is  here,"  Ludlow  repeated.  "  Now 
will  you  tell  me  how  you  got  here  ?" 

"  I  rowed  back  in  a  boat." 

"  "Who  let  you  have  a  boat  ?" 

"There  were  sailors  on  the  steamer.  After  I 
found  Rosanne  was  left  behind  I  would  have  had  a 
boat  or  killed  the  man  that  prevented  me.  I  had  to 

127 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

wait  out  on  the  lake  until  it  got  dark.  I  knew  your 
wife  would  take  care  of  her.  I  told  myself  that 
when  I  couldn't  find  any  chance  to  land  in  St. 
James's  Bay  until  sunset." 

"  She's  been  hiding  in  the  lumber  on  the  dock  all 
day." 

"  Did  any  one  hurt  her  ?" 

"  Evidently  not." 

The  Mormon  husband's  face  cleared  with  a  con 
vulsion  which  in  woman  would  have  been  a  reliev 
ing  burst  of  tears. 

"  Sit  down,  Elizabeth,"  said  the  lighthouse-keep 
er.  "  You  look  fit  to  fall." 

"  Yes,  sit  down,  Elizabeth,"  James  Baker  re 
peated,  turning  to  her  with  secondary  interest.  But 
she  remained  standing,  a  tall  Greek  figure  in 
bloomers,  so  sure  of  pose  that  drapery  or  its  lack 
was  an  accident  of  which  the  eye  took  no  account. 
She  had  pushed  her  soft  brown  hair,  dampened  by 
the  lake,  behind  her  ears.  They  showed  delicately 
against  the  two  shining  masses.  Her  forehead  and 
chin  were  of  noble  and  courageous  shape.  If  there 
was  fault,  it  was  in  the  breadth  and  height  of 
brows  masterful  rather  than  feminine.  She  had 
not  one  delicious  sensuous  charm  to  lure  man.  Her 
large  eyes  were  blotted  with  a  hopeless  blankness. 
She  waited  to  see  what  would  be  done  next. 

"  Now  I'll  tell  you,"  said  Baker  to  his  friend,  with 
decision,  "  I'm  not  going  to  bring  the  howling  Gen 
tiles  around  you." 

"  I  don't  care  whether  they  come  or  not." 
128 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

"  I  know  you  don't.  It  isn't  necessary  in  such  a 
time  as  this  for  you  and  me  to  look  back." 

"I  told  you  at  the  time  I  wouldn't  forget  it, 
Jim.  You  stood  by  me  when  I  married  Cecilia  in 
the  teeth  of  the  Mormons,  and  I'll  stand  by  you 
through  any  mob  of  Gentiles.  My  sail-boat's  out 
yonder,  and  it's  yours  as  long  as  you  want  it ;  and 
we'll  provision  it." 

"  That's  what  I  was  going  to  ask,  Ludlow." 

"  If  I  were  you  I'd  put  for  Green  Bay.  Old 
neighbors  are  there,  my  father  among  them." 

"  That  was  my  plan !" 

"But,"  Ludlow  added,  turning  his  thumb  over 
his  shoulder  with  embarrassment,  "  they're  all  Gen 
tiles  in  Green  Bay." 

"  Elizabeth  and  I  talked  it  over  in  the  boat.  I 
told  her  the  truth  before  God.  We've  agreed  to 
live  apart.  Ludlow,  I  never  wanted  any  wife  but 
Rosanne,  and  I  don't  want  any  wife  but  Rosanne 
now.  You  don't  know  how  it  happened ;  I  was 
first  of  the  young  men  called  on  to  set  an  example. 
Brother  Strang  could  bring  a  pressure  to  bear  that 
it  was  impossible  to  resist.  He  might  have  threat 
ened  till  doomsday.  But  I  don't  know  what  he  did 
with  me.  I  told  him  it  wasn't  treating  Elizabeth 
fair.  Still,  I  married  her  according  to  Saints'  law, 
and  I  consider  myself  bound  by  my  pledge  to  pro 
vide  for  her.  She's  a  good  girl.  She  has  no  one  to 
look  to  but  me.  And  I'm  not  going  to  turn  her  off 
to  shift  for  herself  if  the  whole  United  States  mus 
ters  against  me." 

i  -    129 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

"  Now  you  talk  like  a  man.  I  think  better  of  you 
than  I  have  for  a  couple  of  weeks  past." 

"  It  ought  to  make  me  mad  to  be  run  off  of 
Beaver.  But  I  couldn't  take  any  interest.  May  I 
see  Eosanne  ?" 

"  Go  right  up-stairs.  Cecilia  took  her  up  to  put 
her  to  bed.  The  walls  and  floors  are  thick  here  or 
she  would  have  heard  your  voice." 

"  Poor  little  Kosanne !  It's  been  a  hard  day  for 
her." 

The  young  Mormon  paused  before  ascending. 
"  Ludlow,  as  soon  as  you  can  give  me  a  few  things 
to  make  the  women  comfortable  for  the  run  to 
Green  Bay,  I'll  take  them  and  put  out." 

"  Tell  Cecilia  to  come  down.  She'll  know  what 
they  need." 

Until  Cecilia  came  down  and  hugged  Elizabeth 
silently  but  most  tenderly  the  lighthouse  -  keeper 
stood  with  his  feet  and  gaze  planted  on  a  braided 
rug,  not  knowing  what  to  say.  He  then  shifted  his 
feet  and  remarked : 

"It's  a  fine  night  for  a  sail,  Elizabeth.  I  think 
we're  going  to  have  fair  weather." 

"  I  think  we  are,"  she  answered. 

Hurried  preparations  were  made  for  the  voyage. 
Elizabeth  helped  Cecilia  gather  food  and  clothes 
and  two  Mackinac  blankets  from  the  stores  of  a 
young  couple  not  rich  but  open-handed.  The  light 
house-keeper  trimmed  the  lantern  to  hang  at  the 
mast-head.  He  was  about  to  call  the  two  up-stairs 
when  the  crunching  of  many  feet  on  gravel  was 

130 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

heard  around  his  tower  and  a  torch  was  thrust  at 
one  of  the  windows. 

At  the  same  instant  he  put  Elizabeth  and  Cecilia 
in  the  stairway  and  let  James  Baker,  bounding 
down  three  steps  at  once,  into  the  room. 

Each  man  took  a  gun,  Ludlow  blowing  out  the 
candle  as  he  reached  for  his  weapons. 

"  Now  you  stand  back  out  of  sight  and  let  me 
talk  to  them,"  he  said  to  the  young  Mormon,  as  an 
explosive  clamor  began.  "  They'll  kill  you,  and 
they  daren't  touch  me.  Even  if  they  had  anything 
against  me,  the  drunkest  of  them  know  better  than 
to  shoot  down  a  government  officer.  I'm  going  to 
open  this  window." 

A  rabble  of  dusky  shapes  headed  by  a  torch- 
bearer  who  had  doubtless  lighted  his  fat -stick  at 
the  burning  temple,  pressed  forward  to  force  a  way 
through  the  window. 

"  Get  off  of  the  flower-bed,"  said  Ludlow,  drop 
ping  the  muzzle  of  his  gun  on  the  sill.  "  You're 
tramping  down  my  wife's  flowers." 

"  It's  your  nosegays  of  Mormons  we're  after  hav 
ing,  Ludlow.  We  seen  them  shlipping  in  here  !" 

"  It's  shame  to  you,  Ludlow,  and  your  own  da- 
cent  wife  that  hard  to  come  at,  by  raison  of  King 
Strang !" 

"  A  ugh !  thim  bloomers  ! — they  do  be  makin'  me 
sthummick  sick  !" 

"  What  hurts  you  worst,"  said  Ludlow,  "  is  the 
price  you  had  to  pay  the  Mormons  for  fish  bar 
rels." 

131 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

The  mob  groaned  and  hooted.  "  Wull  ye  give 
us  out  the  divil  forninst  there,  or  wull  ye  take  a 
broadside  through  the  windy  2" 

"  I  haven't  any  devil  in  the  house." 

"  It's  Jim  Baker,  be  the  powers.  He  wor  seen, 
and  his  women." 

"  Jim  Baker  is  here.  But  he's  leaving  the  island 
at  once  with  the  women." 

"  He'll  not  lave  it  alive." 

"  You,  Pat  Corrigan,"  said  Ludlow,  pointing  his 
finger  at  the  torch-bearer,  "  do  you  remember  the 
morning  you  and  your  mate  rowed  in  to  the  light 
house  half-frozen  and  starved  and  I  fed  and  warmed 
you  ?" 

"Dolmoindit?    Idol" 

"  Did  I  let  the  Mormons  take  you  then  ?" 

«  No,  bedad." 

"  When  King  Strang's  constables  came  galloping 
down  here  to  arrest  you,  didn't  I  run  in  water  to 
my  waist  to  push  you  off  in  your  boat  ?" 

"  You  did,  bedad  !" 

"  I  didn't  give  you  up  to  them,  and  I  won't  give 
this  family  up  to  you.  They're  not  doing  you  any 
harm.  Let  them  peaceably  leave  Beaver." 

"  But  the  two  wives  of  him,"  argued  Pat  Cor 
rigan. 

"  How  many  wives  and  children  have  you  ?" 

"Is  it  'how  many  wives,'  says  the  haythen  1 
Wan  wife,  by  the  powers ;  and  tin  childer." 

"  Haven't  you  about  as  large  a  family  as  you  can 
take  care  of  ?" 

133 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

"  Begobs,  I  have." 

"  Do  you  want  to  take  in  Jim  Baker's  Mormon 
wife  and  provide  for  her  ?  Somebody  has  to.  If 
you  won't  let  him  do  it,  perhaps  you'll  do  it  your 
self." 

"  No,  bedad  !" 

"  Well,  then,  you'd  better  go  about  your  business 
and  let  him  alone.  I  don't  see  that  we  have  to 
meddle  with  these  things.  Do  you  ?" 

The  crowd  moved  uneasily  and  laughed,  good- 
naturedly  owning  to  being  plucked  of  its  cause 
and  arrested  in  the  very  act  of  returning  evil  for 
good. 

"  I  tould  you  Ludlow  was  the  foine  man,"  said 
the  torch -bearer  to  his  confederates. 

"  There's  no  harm  in  you  boys,"  pursued  the  fine 
man.  "  You're  not  making  a  war  on  women." 

"  We're  not.     Thrue  for  you." 

"  If  you  feel  like  having  a  wake  over  the  Mor 
mons,  why  don't  you  get  more  torches  and  make  a 
procession  down  the  Galilee  road  ?  You've  done 
about  all  you  can  on  Mount  Pisgah." 

As  they  began  to  trail  away  at  this  suggestion 
and  to  hail  him  with  parting  shouts,  Ludlow  shut 
the  window  and  laughed  in  the  dark  room. 

"  I'd  like  to  start  them  chasing  the  fox  around  all 
the  five  lakes  on  Beaver.  But  they  may  change 
their  minds  before  they  reach  the  sand-hills.  We'd 
better  load  the  boat  right  off.  Jim." 

In  the  hurrying  Rosanne  came  down-stairs  and 
found  Elizabeth  waiting  at  the  foot.  They  could 

133 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

see  each  other  only  by  starlight.  They  were  alone, 
for  the  others  had  gone  out  to  the  boat. 

"  Are  you  willing  for  me  to  go,  Rosanne?"  spoke 
Elizabeth.  Her  sweet  voice  was  of  a  low  pitch, 
unhurried  and  steady.  "  James  says  he'll  build  me 
a  little  house  in  your  yard." 

"  Oh,  Elizabeth !" 

Rosanne  did  not  cry,  "  I  cannot  hate  you  !"  but 
she  threw  herself  into  the  arms  of  the  larger,  more 
patient  woman  whom  she  saw  no  longer  as  a  rival, 
and  who  would  cherish  her  children.  Elizabeth 
kissed  her  husband's  wife  as  a  little  sister. 

The  lights  on  Beaver,  sinking  to  duller  redness, 
shone  behind  Elizabeth  like  the  fires  of  the  stake  as 
she  and  Cecilia  walked  after  the  others  to  the  boat. 
Cecilia  wondered  if  her  spirit  rose  against  the  in 
dignities  of  her  position  as  an  undesired  wife,  whose 
legal  rights  were  not  even  recognized  by  the  society 
into  which  she  would  be  forced.  The  world  was 
not  open  to  her  as  to  a  man.  In  that  day  it  would 
have  stoned  her  if  she  ventured  too  far  from  some 
protected  fireside.  Fierce  envy  of  squaws  who 
could  tramp  winter  snows  and  were  not  despised 
for  their  brief  marriages  may  have  flashed  through 
Elizabeth  like  the  little  self-protecting  blaze  a  man 
lighted  around  his  own  cabin  when  the  prairie  was 
on  fire.  Why  in  all  the  swarming  centuries  of 
human  experience  had  the  lot  of  a  creature  with 
such  genius  for  loving  been  cast  where  she  was 
utterly  thrown  away  ? 

Solitary  and  carrying  her  passion  a  hidden  coal 
134 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 

she  walked  in  the  footsteps  of  martyrs  behind  the 
pair  of  reunited  lovers. 

" Take  care,  Eosanne.  Don't  stumble,  darling!" 
said  the  man  to  whom  Elizabeth  had  been  married 
by  a  law  she  respected  until  a  higher  law  unhus- 
banded  her. 

Cecilia  noted  the  passionate  clutch  of  her  hand 
and  its  withdrawal  without  touching  him  as  he 
lurched  over  a  rock. 

He  put  his  wife  tenderly  in  the  boat  and  then 
turned  with  kind  formality  to  Elizabeth ;  but  Lud- 
low  had  helped  her. 

"  Well,  bon  voyage,"  said  the  lighthouse-keeper. 
"  Mind  you  run  up  the  lantern  on  the  mast  as  soon 
as  you  get  aboard.  I  don't  think  there'll  be  any 
chase.  The  Irish  have  freed  their  minds." 

"  I'll  send  your  fishing-boat  back  as  soon  as  I  can, 
Ludlow." 

"  Turn  it  over  to  father ;  he'll  see  to  it.  Give 
him  news  of  us  and  our  love  to  all  the  folks.  He 
will  be  anxious  to  know  the  truth  about  Beaver." 

"  Good-bye,  Elizabeth  and  Eosanne  !" 

"  Good-bye,  Cecilia!" 

A  grinding  on  pebbles,  then  the  thump  of  ad 
justed  oars  and  the  rush  of  water  on  each  side  of  a 
boat's  course,  marked  the  fugitives'  progress  tow 
ards  the  anchored  smack. 

Suspended  on  starlit  waters  as  if  in  eternity,  and 
watching  the  smoke  of  her  past  go  up  from  a  looted 
island,  Elizabeth  had  the  sense  of  a  great  company 
around  her.  The  uninstructed  girl  from  the  little 

135 


BEAVER    LIGHTS 


kingdom  of  Beaver  divined  a  worldful  of  souls  wait 
ing  and  loving  in  hopeless  silence  and  marching  re- 
sistlessly  as  the  stars  to  their  reward.  For  there  is 
a  development  like  the  unfolding  of  a  god  for  those 
who  suffer  in  strength  and  overcome. 


A  BRITISH  ISLANDEIl* 

WELL,  I  wish  you  could  have  been  here 
in  Mrs.  Gunning's  day.     She   was   the 
oddest  woman  on  Mackinac.     Not  that 
she  exerted  herself  to  attract  attention.  But  she  was 
such  a  character,  and  her  manners  were  so  astonish 
ing,  that  she  furnished  perennial  entertainment  to 
the  few  families  of  us  constituting  island  society. 

She  was  an  English  woman,  born  in  South  Af 
rica,  and  married  to  an  American  army  surgeon, 
and  had  lived  over  a  large  part  of  the  world  before 
coming  to  this  fort.  She  had  no  children.  But  her 
sister  had  married  Dr.  Gunning's  brother.  And 
the  good-for-nothing  pair  set  out  to  follow  the 
English  drum-beat  around  the  world,  and  left  a  child 
for  the  two  more  responsible  ones  to  rear.  Juliana 
Gunning  was  so  deaf  she  could  not  hear  thunder. 
But  she  was  quits  with  nature,  for  all  that ;  a  won 
derfully  alluring  kind  of  girl,  with  big  brown  eyes 
that  were  better  than  ears,  and  that  could  catch 
the  meaning  of  moving  lips.  It  seemed  to  strangers 

*  This  story  is  set  down  exactly  as  it  was  told  by  the  Island 
Chronicler. 

137 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

that  she  merely  evaded  conversation ;  for  she  had  a 
sweet  voice,  a  little  drawling,  and  was  witty  when 
she  wanted  to  speak.  Juliana  couldn't  step  out  of 
the  surgeon's  quarters  to  walk  across  the  parade- 
ground  without  making  every  soldier  in  the  fort 
conscious  of  her.  She  was  well -shaped  and  tall, 
and  a  slight  pitting  of  the  skin  only  enhanced  the 
charm  of  her  large  features.  She  used  to  dress  un 
like  anybody  else,  in  foreign  things  that  her  aunt 
gave  her,  arid  was  always  carrying  different  kinds 
of  thin  scarfs  to  throw  over  her  face  and  tantalize 
the  men. 

Everybody  knew  that  Captain  Markley  would 
marry  her  if  he  could.  But  along  comes  Dr.  Mc- 
Curdy,  a  wealthy  widower  from  the  East,  and 
nothing  will  do  but  he  must  hang  about  Mack- 
inac  week  after  week,  pretending  to  need  the  climate 
— and  he  weighing  nearly  two  hundred — to  court 
Juliana  Gunning.  The  lieutenant's  wife  said  of 
Juliana  that  she  would  flirt  with  a  half-breed  if 
nothing  better  offered.  But  the  lieutenant's  wife 
was  a  homely,  jealous  little  thing,  and  could  never 
have  had  all  the  men  hanging  after  her.  And  if 
she  had  had  the  chance  she  might  have  been  as  ag 
gravating  about  making  up  her  mind  between  two 
as  Juliana  was. 

We  used  to  think  the  girl  very  good-natured. 
But  those  three  people  made  a  queer  family.  Dr. 
Gunning  was  the  remnant  of  a  magnificent  man, 
and  he  always  had  a  courtly  air.  He  paid  little 
attention  to  the  small  affairs  of  life,  and  rated 

138 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

money  as  nothing.  Dr.  Gunning  had  his  peculiar 
ities;  but  I  am  not  telling  you  about  him.  He 
was  a  kind  man,  and  would  cross  the  strait  in  any 
weather  to  attend  a  sick  half-breed  or  any  other 
ailing  creature,  who  probably  never  paid  him  a 
cent.  He  was  fond  of  the  island,  and  quite  satis 
fied  to  spend  his  life  here. 

The  day  I  am  telling  you  about,  Mrs.  Gunning 
had  driven  with  me  into  the  village  to  make  some 
calls.  She  was  very  punctilious  about  calling  upon 
strangers.  If  she  intended  to  recognize  a  new 
comer  she  called  at  once.  We  drove  around  to 
the  rear  of  the  fort  and  entered  at  the  back  sally 
port,  where  carriages  always  enter;  but  instead  of 
letting  me  put  her  down  at  the  surgeon's  quarters, 
she  ordered  the  driver  to  stop  in  the  middle  of  the 
parade-ground.  Then  she  got  out  and,  with  never 
a  word,  marched  down  the  steps  to  Captain  Markley, 
where  he  was  leaning  against  the  front  salty-port, 
looking  below  into  the  town.  I  didn't  know  what 
to  do,  so  I  sat  and  waited.  It  was  the  loveliest 
autumn  morning  you  ever  saw.  I  remember  the 
beeches  and  oaks  and  maples  were  spread  out  like 
banners  to  the  very  height  of  the  island,  all  crim 
son  and  yellow  splashes  in  the  midst  of  evergreens. 
There  had  been  an  awful  storm  the  night  before, 
and  you  could  see  down  the  sally-port  how  drenched 
the  fort  garden  was  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Captain  Markley  had  a  fearfully  depressed  look. 
He  was  so  down  ^n  the  mouth  that  the  sentinels 
noticed  it.  I  saw  the  one  in  front  of  the  western 

139 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

block-house  stick  his  tongue  in  his  cheek  and  wink 
at  one  pacing  below.  We  heard  afterwards  that 
Captain  Markley  had  been  out  alone  to  inspect 
target -ranges  in  the  pine  woods,  and  almost  ran 
against  Juliana  Gunning  and  Dr.  McCurdy  sitting 
on  a  log.  Before  he  could  get  out  of  the  way  he 
overheard  the  loudest  proposal  ever  made  on  Mack- 
inac.  It  used  to  be  told  about  in  mess,  though 
how  it  got  out  Captain  Markley  said  he  did  not 
know,  unless  they  heard  it  at  the  fort. 

"  I  have  brought  you  out  here,"  the  doctor 
shouted  to  Juliana,  as  loud  as  a  cow  lowing,  "  to 
tell  you  that  I  love  you!  I  want  you  to  be  my 
wife!" 

She  behaved  as  if  she  didn't  hear — I  think  that 
minx  often  had  fun  with  her  deafness — and  inclined 
her  head  to  one  side. 

So  he  said  it  all  over  again. 

"  I  have  brought  you  to  this  secluded  spot  to  tell 
you  that  I  love  you !  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife !" 

It  was  like  a  steamer  bellowing  on  the  strait. 
Then  Juliana  threw  her  scarf  over  her  face,  and 
Captain  Markley  broke  away  through  the  bushes. 

Mrs.  Gunning  never  said  a  word  to  me  about 
either  of  the  suitors.  It  wasn't  because  she  didn't 
talk,  for  she  was  a  great  talker.  We  had  to  post 
pone  a  card-party  one  evening,  on  account  of  the 
continuous  flow  of  Mrs.  Gunning's  conversation, 
which  never  ceased  until  it  was  time  for  refresh 
ments,  there  being  not  a  moment's  pause  for  the 
tables  to  be  set  out. 

140 


I   WAS    STARTLED     TO   SEE   HKR  EUSH   AT   THE   CAPTAIN 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

I  was  startled  to  see  her  rush  down  at  Captain 
Markley,  brandishing  her  parasol  as  if  she  were 
going  to  knock  him  down.  I  thought  if  she  had 
any  preference  it  would  be  for  an  army  man;  for 
you  know  an  army  woman's  contempt  of  civilian 
money  and  position.  Army  women  continually 
want  to  be  moving  on;  and  they  hate  bothering 
with  household  stuff,  such  as  we  prize. 

Captain  Markley  did  look  poor-spirited,  drooping 
against  the  sally-port,  for  a  man  who  in  his  uniform 
was  the  most  conspicuous  figure  to  Mackinac  girls 
in  a  ball-room.  Maybe  if  he  had  been  courting 
anything  but  a  statue  he  might  have  made  a  better 
figure  at  it.  Juliana  was  worse  than  a  statue, 
though;  for  she  could  float  through  a  thousand 
graceful  poses,  and  drive  a  man  crazy  with  her  eyes. 
He  wasn't  the  lover  to  go  out  in  the  woods  and 
shoot  a  proposal  as  loud  as  a  cannon  at  a  girl;  and 
it  seems  he  couldn't  get  any  satisfaction  from  her 
by  writing  notes. 

Mrs.  Gunning  was  drawing  off  her  gloves  as  she 
marched  at  him  with  her  parasol,  and  I  remember 
how  her  emeralds  and  diamonds  flashed  in  the  sun 
— old  heirlooms.  I  never  saw  another  woman  who 
had  so  many  precious  stones.  She  was  tall,  with 
that  robust  English  quality  that  sometimes  goes 
with  slenderness.  She  and  Juliana  were  not  a  bit 
alike.  When  she  walked,  her  feet  came  down  pat. 
I  pitied  Captain  Markley.  By  leaning  over  the 
carriage  I  could  see  him  give  a  start  as  Mrs.  Gun 
ning  pounced  at  him. 

141 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

"  It's  a  fine  day  after  the  storm,  Captain  Mark- 
ley,"  says  she ;  and  he  lifted  his  cap  and  said  it  was. 

Then  she  made  a  rash  that  I  thought  would  drive 
him  down  the  cliff,  and  whirled  her  parasol  around 
his  head  like  sword-play,  talking  about  the  havoc 
of  the  storm.  She  rippled  him  from  head  to  foot 
and  poked  at  his  eyes,  and  jabbed  him,  to  show  how 
lightning  struck  the  rocks,  Captain  Markley  all  the 
time  moving  back  and  dodging;  and  to  save  my 
life  I  couldn't  help  laughing,  though  the  sentinels 
above  him  saw  it.  They  were  pretty  well  used  to 
her,  and  rolled  their  quids  in  their  cheeks,  and 
winked  at  one  another. 

When  she  had  all  but  thrown  him  down-hill,  she 
stuck  the  ferrule  right  under  his  nose  and  shook  it, 
and  says  she:  "  Yet  it  is  now  as  fine  a  day  as  if  no 
such  convulsion  had  ever  threatened  the  island.  It 
is  often  so  in  this  world." 

He  couldn't  deny  that,  miserable  as  he  looked. 
And  I  thought  she  would  let  him  alone  and  come 
and  say  good -day  to  me.  But  no,  indeed !  She 
took  him  by  the  arm.  Soldiers  off  duty  were 
lounging  on  the  benches,  and  Captain  Markley 
wouldn't  let  them  see  him  haled  like  a  prisoner. 
He  marched  square -shouldered  and  erect;  and  Mrs. 
Gunning  says  to  me  as  they  reached  the  carriage : 

"The  captain  will  help  you  down  if  you  will 
come  with  us.  I  am  going  to  show  him  my  Shang 
hai  rooster." 

I  thanked  her,  and  gladly  let  him  help  me  down. 
I  wasn't  going  to  desert  the  poor  fellow  when  Mrs. 

142 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

Gunning  was  dealing  with  him;  and,  besides,  I 
wanted  to  see  that  rooster  myself.  "We  heard  such 
stories  of  the  way  she  kept  her  chickens  and  labored 
over  all  the  domestic  animals  she  gathered  around 
herself  at  the  fort. 

By  ascending  a  steep  bank  on  which  the  western 
block -house  stands,  you  know  you  can  look  down 
into  the  drill -ground — that  wide  meadow  behind 
the  fort,  with  quarters  at  the  back.  Mrs.  Gunning 
had  an  enclosure  built  outside  the  wall  for  her 
chickens  y  and  there  they  were,  walking  about, 
scratching  the  ground,  and  diverting  themselves  as 
well  as  they  could  in  their  clothes.  She  had  a  shed 
at  one  end  of  the  enclosure,  and  all  the  hens,  walk 
ing  about  or  sitting  on  nests,  wore  hoods!  Holes 
were  made  for  their  eyes  but  none  for  their  beaks, 
and  the  eyelets  seemed  to  magnify  so  that  they 
looked  wrathy  as  they  stretched  their  necks  and 
quavered  in  those  bags.  Captain  Markley  and  I 
both  burst  out  laughing,  but  Mrs.  Gunning  explained 
it  all  seriously. 

"  They  eat  their  eggs,"  says  she ;  "  so  I  tie  hoods 
on  them  until  I  have  collected  the  eggs  for  the  day." 

I  remember  some  were  clawing  their  head-gear, 
trying  alternate  feet,  and  two  determined  hens 
were  trying  to  peck  each  other  free.  But  they 
were  generally  resigned,  and  we  might  have  grown 
so  after  the  first  minute,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
rooster. 

Captain  Markley  roared,  and  I  leaned  against 
the  lower  part  of  the  block-house  and  held  my 

143 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

sides.  That  long-legged,  awkward,  high-stepping 
Shanghai  cock  was  dressed  like  a  man  in  a  suit  of 
clothes — all  but  a  hat.  His  coat-sleeves  extended 
over  his  wings,  and  when  he  flapped  them  to  crow, 
and  stuck  his  claws  out  of  his  trousers-legs,  I  wept 
tears  on  my  handkerchief.  Mrs.  Gunning  talked 
straight  ahead  without  paying  any  attention  to 
our  laughter.  If  it  ever  had  been  funny  to  her  it 
had  ceased  to  be  so.  She  had  not  brought  Captain 
Markley  there  to  amuse  him. 

"  Look  at  that  Shanghai  rooster  now,"  says  she. 
"  I  brought  him  up  from  the  South.  I  put  him 
among  the  hens  and  they  picked  all  his  feathers 
off.  He  was  as  bare,  captain,  as  your  hand.  He 
was  literally  hen-pecked.  First  one  would  step  up 
to  him  and  pull  out  a  feather  ;  then  another ;  and 
he,  poor  fool,  did  nothing  but  cower  against  the 
fence.  It  never  seemed  to  enter  his  brain-pan  he 
could  put  a  stop  to  the  torture.  There  he  was, 
without  a  feather  to  cover  himself  with,  and  the 
cool  autumn  nights  coming  on.  So  I  took  some 
gray  cloth  and  made  him  these  clothes.  He  would 
have  been  picked  to  the  bone  if  I  hadn't.  But 
they  put  spunk  into  him.  That  Shanghai  rooster 
has  found  out  he  has  to  assert  himself,  captain,  and 
he  does  assert  himself." 

I  saw  Captain  Markley  turn  red,  and  I  knew  he 
wished  the  sentinel  wasn't  standing  guard  a  few 
feet  away  in  front  of  that  block-house. 

She  might  have  let  him  alone  after  she  had  given 
him  that  thrust,  and  gone  on  to  her  house,  and  said 

144 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

good-bye  in  the  usual  way.  But  just  as  he  was  help 
ing  me  down  it  happened  that  Juliana  and  Dr.  Mc- 
Curdy  appeared  through  the  rear  sally-port,  which 
they  must  have  reached  by  skirting  the  wall  instead 
of  crossing  the  drill-field.  As  soon  as  Mrs.  Gunning 
saw  them  she  stiffened,  and  clubbed  her  umbrella 
at  Captain  Markley  again.  He  couldn't  get  away, 
so  he  stood  his  ground. 

"  See  that  creature  begin  to  curvet  and  roll  her 
eyes !"  says  Mrs.  Gunning.  "  If  the  parade-ground 
were  full  of  men  I  think  she  would  prance  over  the 
parapet.  At  my  age  she  may  have  some  sense  and 
feeling.  But  I  would  be  glad  to  see  her  in  the 
hands  of  a  man  who  knew  how  to  assert  himself." 

"  May  I  ask,"  says  Captain  Markley,  "  what  you 
mean  by  a  man's  asserting  himself,  Mrs.  Gunning?" 

She  made  such  a  pounce  at  him  with  the  parasol 
that  her  waist  began  to  rip  in  the  back. 

"  My  dear  boy,  I  am  a  full-blooded  Briton,  and 
Juliana  is  what  you  may  call  an  English  half-breed. 
In  the  bottom  of  our  hearts  we  have  a  hankering 
for  monarchy.  The  lion,  who  permits  nobody  else 
to  poach  on  his  preserves,  is  our  symbol.  While 
the  vexatious  child  and  I  are  not  at  all  alike  in 
other  things,  I  know  she  admires  as  much  as  I  do 
a  man  who  asserts  himself." 

Though  it  was  said  Juliana  Gunning  could  not 
hear  thunder,  she  generally  understood  her  aunt's 
voice,  and  could  tell  when  she  was  being  talked  about. 
She  came  straight  to  her  own  rescue,  as  you  might 
say,  and  Dr.  McCurdy,  poor  man,  was  very  polite,  but 
K  145 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

not  cheerful.  If  we  had  known  then  what  he  had 
been  yelling  in  the  woods,  we  should  have  under 
stood  better  why  Captain  Markley  seemed  to  pluck 
up  and  strut  at  the  sight  of  him. 

I  think  Mrs.  Gunning  determined  to  finish  the 
business  that  very  hour.  She  met  Dr.  McCurdy 
with  all  the  sweetness  she  could  put  into  her  man 
ner  just  before  she  intended  to  pounce  the  hardest. 

"  I  have  been  showing  the  captain  my  chickens," 
she  says,  "  and  now  I  want  to  show  you  my  cows." 

Dr.  McCurdy  thanked  her,  and  said  he  would  be 
delighted  to  see  the  cows,  but  he  stuck  to  Juliana 
like  a  shadow.  Maybe  he  expected  the  cows  would 
give  him  a  further  excuse  for  being  with  her.  But 
Mrs.  Gunning  cut  him  off  there.  She  gave  her 
keys  to  her  niece,  and  says  she : 

"  Go  in  the  house,  my  dear,  and  set  out  the  de 
canter  and  glasses,  and  give  Captain  Markley  a 
glass  of  wine  to  keep  him  until  we  come  back.  I 
want  to  tell  him  something  more  about  that 
Shanghai  rooster." 

Juliana  understood,  and  took  the  keys,  and  rolled 
her  eyes  tantalizingly  at  Dr.  McCurdy  The  poor 
fellow  made  a  stand,  and  said  the  cows  would  do 
some  other  time,  and  mightn't  he  beg  for  a  glass  of 
wine  too,  after  his  walk? 

"  Certainly,  doctor,  certainly,"  says  Mrs.  Gun 
ning,  leading  the  way  to  the  front  sally-port.  "  "We 
expect  you  to  take  a  glass  with  us.  But  while  Ju 
liana  sets  out  the  decanter,  let  us  look  at  the  cows." 

She  hadn't  mentioned  me,  but  I  didn't  care  for 
146 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

that,  knowing  Mrs.  Gunning  as  I  did.  I  should 
have  followed  if  she  hadn't  beckoned  to  me,  for  I 
was  as  determined  to  see  the  affair  through  as  she 
was  to  finish  it. 

We  had  to  go  down  that  long  path  from  the 
front  sally-port  to  the  street,  and  then  turn  into 
the  field  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  where  the  fort 
stables  are.  Mrs.  Gunning  talked  all  the  time 
about  cattle,  flourishing  her  parasol  and  flashing 
her  diamonds  and  emeralds  in  the  sun,  and  telling 
Dr.  McCurdy  she  had  intended  to  ask  his  opinion 
about  them  ever  since  his  arrival  on  the  island. 
He  answered  yes,  and  no,  and  seemed  to  be  think 
ing  of  anything  but  cattle. 

Mackinac  cows  tinkled  their  bells  in  every  thick 
et.  But  Mrs.  Gunning's  pets  were  brought  in 
morning  and  afternoon  to  clean,  well-lighted  stalls. 
There  they  stood  in  a  row,  sleek  as  if  they  had 
been  curried — and  I  have  heard  that  she  did  curry 
them  herself  —  all  switching  natural  tails  except 
one.  And,  as  sure  as  you  live,  that  cow  had  a  false 
tail  that  Mrs.  Gunning  had  made  for  her ! 

She  took  hold  of  it  and  showed  it  to  us.  It  did 
not  seem  very  funny  to  Dr.  McCurdy,  but  he  had 
to  listen  to  what  she  said. 

"Spotty  was  a  fine  cow,  but  by  some  accident 
she  had  lost  her  tail,  and  I  got  her  cheaper  on  that 
account,"  says  Mrs.  Gunning.  u  You  don't  know 
how  distressing  it  was  to  see  her  switching  a 
stump.  So  I  made  her  a  tail  of  whalebone  and  In 
dia-rubber  and  yarn.  I  knit  it  myself." 

147 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

The  poor  fellow  looked  up  at  the  fort  and  said : 
"  Yes.  It  is  very  interesting,  Mrs.  Gunning." 

"  I  am  aware,"  says  she,  "  that  the  expedient 
was  never  hit  upon  before.  But  Spotty's  brush  is 
a  great  success.  It  used  to  make  me  unhappy  to 
think  of  leaving  this  post.  All  the  other  cows 
might  find  good  homes  with  new  owners;  but 
who  would  care  for  Spotty  £  Since  I  have  sup 
plied  her  deficiency,  however,  and  know  that  the 
supply  can  constantly  be  renewed,  my  mind  is  easy 
about  her.  If  you  ever  have  to  knit  a  cow's 
tail,  doctor,  remember  the  foundations  are  whale 
bone  and  India-rubber1;  and  I  would  advise  you 
to  use  the  coarsest  yarn  you  can  find  for  the 
brush." 

"  I  will,  Mrs.  Gunning,"  he  says,  like  a  man  who 
wanted  to  lie  down  in  the  straw  and  die.  And  I 
couldn't  laugh  and  relieve  myself,  because  it  was 
like  laughing  at  him. 

"  Now  that  shows,"  says  Mrs.  Gunning,  and  she 
pounced  at  him  and  shook  her  parasol  in  his  face 
so  vigorously  that  she  ripped  in  the  back  the  same 
as  a  chrysalis,  "  how  easy  it  is  to  remedy  a  seem 
ingly  incurable  injury." 

If  he  didn't  understand  her  then,  he  did  after 
wards.  But  he  looked  as  if  he  couldn't  endure  it 
any  longer,  and  made  for  the  door. 

"  Stop,  Dr.  McCurdy,"  says  she.  "  You  haven't 
heard  these  cows'  pedigrees." 

He  stopped,  and  said :  "  How  long  are  the  pedi 
grees  ?" 

148 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

"  Here  are  four  generations,"  says  Mrs.  Gunning — 
"  grandmother,  mother,  daughter,  and  grandchild." 
And  on  she  went,  tracing  their  lineage  through 
blooded  stock  for  more  than  half  an  hour.  She 
was  enthusiastic,  too,  and  got  between  the  doctor 
and  the  door,  and  emphasized  all  her  points  with 
the  parasol.  Her  back  kept  ripping  until  I  ought 
to  have  told  her,  but  I  knew  the  man  was  too  mad 
to  look  at  her,  and  she  was  so  happy  herself,  I  said, 
"  I  will  let  her  alone." 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  my  half-breed  driver, 
sitting  on  the  parade-ground  in  the  waiting  car 
riage.  But  he  was  enjoying  himself  too,  when  we 
climbed  to  the  fort  again,  with  a  soldier  lounging 
on  the  front  wheel. 

Well,  as  soon  as  I  entered  the  little  parlor  that 
Mrs.  Gunning  called  her  drawing-room — ornament 
ed  with  the  movable  knickknacks  that  an  army 
woman  carries  around  with  her,  you  know — I  saw 
that  Captain  Markley  had  asserted  himself.  If  he 
hadn't  asserted  himself  on  that  occasion,  I  do  be 
lieve  Mrs.  Gunning  would  have  been  done  with  him 
forever.  I  never  saw  a  man  so  anxious  to  show 
that  he  was  accepted.  Of  course  he  couldn't  an 
nounce  the  engagement  until  it  had  been  sanc 
tioned  by  the  girl's  foster-parents.  But  he  put  Juli 
ana  through  the  engaged  drill  like  a  veteran,  and 
she  was  wonderfully  meek. 

I  suppose  one  British  woman  knows  another  bet 
ter  than  an  American  can.  But  I  felt  sorry  for 
Dr.  McCurdy  when  he  saw  the  state  of  things  and 

149 


A    BRITISH    ISLANDER 

took  his  leave,  and  Mrs.  Gunning  rubbed  his  defeat 
on  the  raw. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  friend,"  says  she,  shaking  his 
hand,  "  we  see  that  buds  will  match  with  buds.  I 
could  never  find  it  in  my  heart  to  wed  a  bud  to  a 
full-blown  rose." 

I  don't  doubt  that  the  full-blown  rose,  as  he  went 
down  the  fort  hill,  cursed  Mrs.  Gunning's  cow's  tail 
and  all  her  cows'  pedigrees.  But  she  looked  as 
serene  as  if  he  had  pledged  the  young  couple's 
health  (instead  of  going  off  and  leaving  his  wine 
half  tasted),  and  took  me  to  see  her  chickens'  cup 
board. 

There  Avere  shelves  with  rows  of  cans  and  bot 
tles,  each  can  or  bottle  labelled  "Molly,"  or  "Lucy," 
or  "  Speckie,"  and  so  on. 

"  I  have  discovered,"  Mrs.  Gunning  says  to  me, 
"  that  one  hen's  food  may  be  another  hen's  poison, 
so  I  mix  and  prepare  for  each  fowl  what  that  fowl 
seems  to  need.  For  instance,  Lucy  can  bear  more 
meal  than  Speckie,  and  the  Shanghai  cock  had  to 
be  strongly  encouraged.  Though  it  sometimes 
happens,"  says  she,  casting  her  eye  back  towards 
the  drawing  -  room,  "  that  such  a  fellow  gets  pam 
pered,  and  has  to  have  his  diet  reduced  and  his 
spirit  cooled  down  again." 


THE  CURSED  PATOIS 

A  his  boat  shot  to  the  camp  dock  of  beach 
stones,  the  camper  thought  he  heard  a 
child's  voice  behind  the  screen  of  brush. 
He  leaped  out  and  drew  the  boat  to  its  landing 
upon  a  cross-piece  held  by  two  uprights  in  the 
water,  and  ascended  the  steep  path  worn  in  leaf 
mould. 

There  was  not  only  a  child,  there  was  a  woman 
also  in  the  camp.  And  Frank  Puttany,  his  Ger 
man  feet  planted  outward  in  a  line,  his  smiling 
dark  face  unctuous  with  hospitality  towards  creat 
ures  whom  he  had  evidently  introduced,  in  foolish 
helplessness  gave  his  partner  the  usual  greeting : 

"  Yell,  Prowny." 

"  Hello,  Puttany.     Visitors  3" 

Brown  pulled  off  his  cap  to  the  woman.  She 
was  pretty,  with  eyes  like  a  deer's,  with  white 
teeth  showing  between  her  parted  scarlet  lips,  and 
much  curling  hair  pinned  up  and  blowing  over  her 
ears.  She  had  the  rich  tint  of  a  quarter -breed, 
lightened  in  her  case  by  a  constant  suffusion  which 
gave  her  steady  color.  She  was  dressed  in  a  mixt 
ure  of  patches,  but  all  were  fitted  to  her  perfect 

151 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

shape  with  a  Parisian  elegance  sensed  even  by 
backwoodsmen.  Pressed  against  her  knee  stood 
the  dirtiest  and  chubbiest  four-year-old  child  on  the 
borders  of  Brevoort  Lake — perhaps  the  dirtiest  on 
the  north  shore  of  Michigan.  The  Indian  mixed 
with  his  French  had  been  improved  on  by  the  sun 
until  he  was  of  a  brick  redness  and  hardness  of 
flesh  ;  a  rosy-meated  thing,  like  a  good  muskalonge. 
Brown  suddenly  remembered  the  pair.  They  were 
Joe  La  France's  wife  and  child.  Joe  La  France 
was  dead.  Puttany  had  recently  told  him  that  Joe 
La  France  left  a  widow  and  a  baby  without  shelter, 
and  without  relations  nearer  than  Canada. 

After  greeting  Brown  the  guest  resumed  her  seat 
on  one  of  the  camp-chairs,  a  box  worn  smooth  by 
much  use,  having  a  slit  cut  in  the  top  through 
which  the  hand  could  be  thrust  to  lift  it. 

The  camp,  in  a  small  clearing,  consisted  of  two 
tents,  both  of  the  wedge-shaped  kind.  The  sleep 
ing-tent  was  nearly  filled  by  the  bed  it  contained ; 
and  this,  lifted  a  few  inches  above  the  ground  on 
pole  supports,  was  of  browse  or  brush  and  straw, 
covered  with  blankets.  A  square  canopy  of  mos 
quito-netting  protected  it.  The  cooking-tent  had  a 
foundation  of  logs  and  a  canvas  top.  The  floor  was 
of  pure  white  sand.  Boxes  like  lockers  were  stored 
under  the  eaves  to  hold  food,  and  in  one  corner  a 
cylindrical  camp-stove  with  an  oven  thrust  its  pipe 
through  a  tinned  hole  in  the  roof.  Plenty  of  iron 
skillets,  kettles,  and  pans  hung  above  the  lockers  on 
pegs  in  the  logs;  and  the  camp  dinner  service  of 

153 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

white  ware,  black-handled  knives  and  forks,  and 
metal  spoons,  neatly  washed,  stood  on  a  table. 
Jess,  the  Scotch  collie,  who  was  always  left  to 
guard  the  tents  in  their  owners'  absence,  sat  at  her 
usual  post  within  the  door ;  and  she  and  Brown  ex 
changed  repressed  growls  at  the  strangers.  Jess, 
being  freed  from  her  chain,  trotted  at  his  heels 
when  he  went  back  to  the  beach  to  clean  fish  for 
supper.  She  sat  and  watched  his  deft  and  work- 
hardened  hands  as  he  dipped  and  washed  and  drew 
and  scaled  his  spoil.  He  was  a  clean-skinned,  blue- 
eyed  Canadian  Irishman,  well  made  and  sinewy, 
bright  and  open  of  countenance.  His  blond  hair 
clung  in  almost  flaxen  tendrils  to  his  warm  fore 
head.  No  ill-nature  was  visible  about  him,  yet  he 
turned  like  a  man  in  fierce  self-defence  on  his  part 
ner,  who  followed  Jess  and  stood  also  watching 
him. 

"  Puttany ,  you  fool !  what  have  you  brought 
these  cursed  patois  into  camp  for?" 

"  Joe  La  France  vas  my  old  pardner,"  softly 
pleaded  the  German. 

"Damn  you,  man,  we  can't  start  an  orphan-asy 
lum  and  widows'  home !  We'll  get  a  bad  name  at 
the  hotels.  The  real  good  people  won't  have  us  for 
guides." 

"  She  told  me  in  Allanville  she  had  no  place  to 
stay.  She  did  not  know  what  to  do.  At  the  old 
voman's,  where  Joe  put  her,  they  have  need  of  her 
bed.  The  old  voman  is  too  poor  to  keep  her  any 


153 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

11  I'd  have  done  just  what  you  did ;  that's  what 
makes  me  so  mad.  How  long  is  she  going  to 
stay  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  sheepishly  responded  his  part 
ner. 

"  A  Dutchman  ought  to  have  more  sense  than  to 
load  up  with  a  lot  of  cursed  patois.  Nothing  but 
French  and  Indian  !  We'll  have  to  put  the  precious 
dears  in  the  sleeping-tent,  and  bunk  down  ourselves 
with  blankets  in  the  other.  Did  you  air  the  blank 
ets  good  this  morning,  Frank  ?" 

"  They  vos  veil  aired." 

"You're  a  soft  mark,  Frank!  One  of  us  will 
have  to  marry  Joe  La  France's  widow — that's  what 
it  will  come  to!"  Brown  slapped  the  water  in  vio 
lent  disgust,  but  Puttany  blushed  a  dark  and  modest 
red. 

Men  of  their  class  rarely  have  vision  or  any  kind 
of  foresight.  They  live  in  the  present  and  plan  no 
farther  than  their  horizon,  being,  like  children,  over 
powered  by  visible  things.  But  the  Irish  Canadian 
had  lived  many  lives  as  lake  sailor  and  lumberman, 
and  he  had  a  shrewd  eye  and  quick  humor.  It  was 
he  who  had  devised  the  conveniences  of  the  camp, 
and  who  delicately  and  skilfully  prepared  the  meals 
so  that  the  two  fared  like  epicures ;  while  Puttany 
did  the  scullery-work,  and  was  superior  only  at  deer 
stalking. 

The  perfume  of  coffee  presently  sifted  abroad, 
and  the  table  was  brought  out  and  set  under  the 
evening  sky.  Lockers  gave  up  their  store  of  bread 

154 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

and  pastry  made  by  the  capable  hands  of  the  camp 
housekeeper.  The  woman,  their  guest,  sat  watch 
ing  him  move  from  cook-tent  to  table,  and  Puttany 
lounged  on  the  dog-kennel,  whittling  a  stick. 

"  Frank,"  said  his  partner,  with  sudden  authority, 
u  you  take  the  kid  down  to  the  water  and  scrub 
him." 

"  All  over  ?"  whispered  Puttany,  in  confusion. 

"  No — just  his  hands  and  top.  Supper  is  ready 
to  put  on." 

The  docile  mother  heard  her  child  yelling  and 
blubbering  under  generous  douches  while  nurse's 
duty  was  performed  by  one  of  her  entertainers,  and 
she  smiled  in  proof  that  her  faith  was  grounded  on 
their  righteousness.  She  was  indeed  a  mere  girl. 
Her  short  scarlet  upper  lip  showed  her  teeth  with 
piquant  innocence.  As  much  a  creature  of  the 
woods  as  a  doe,  her  lot  had  been  that  primitive 
struggle  which  knows  nothing  about  the  amenities 
and  proprieties  of  civilization.  This  Brown  could 
clearly  see,  and  he  addressed  her  with  the  same  pro 
tecting  patronage  he  would  have  used  with  the 
child. 

"  What's  your  kid's  name  ?" 

"  Gregoire,  but  he  call  himself  Gougou.  Me,  I 
am  Francoise  La  France." 

"  Yes,  I  know  that.  You  have  had  a  hard  time 
since  Joe  died." 

"  I  been  anxion  "  —  she  clasped  her  hands  and 
looked  pleadingly  at  him — "  I  been  very  anxion !" 

"  Well,  you're  all  right  now." 
155 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

"  You  let  me  do  de  mend'  ?  I  can  sew.  I  use' 
learn  to  sew  when  I  have  t'ing  to  sew  on." 

"  Jerusalem !  look  at  them  shirts  on  the  line  ! 
We  have  more  clothes  to  sew  on  than  any  dude  at 
the  hotels.  And  if  that  isn't  enough,  I'll  make 
Puttany  strip  and  stay  in  the  brush  while  you  do 
his  clothes." 

Francoise  widened  her  smile. 

"  Pve  been  thinking  we'll  have  to  build  you  a 
house  right  over  there."  Her  entertainer  indicated 
the  shore  behind  her. 

"  Oppos'  ?"  exclaimed  Fran£oise,  turning  with 
pleased  interest.  Even  in  her  husband's  lifetime 
little  thought  had  ever  been  taken  for  her. 

"  Yes,  directly  opposite.  We  can  fix  it  up  snug 
like  our  winter  camp  at  the  other  end  of  the  lake." 

"Have  you  two  camp?" 

"  Yes — a  winter  camp  and  a  summer  camp.  But 
we  have  stayed  comfortably  here  in  the  cook-tent 
until  the  thermometer  went  fourteen  degrees  below 
zero.  We'll  sleep  in  it  till  we  get  your  house  done, 
and  you  can  take  the  tent.  If  there  are  no  parties 
wanting  guides,  we  might  as  well  begin  it  in  the 
morning." 

"But,"  faltered  Franchise,  "afterw'iles  when  de 
ice  is  t'ick,  and  you  go  to  de  hudder  camp — 

"  Oh,  we'll  take  care  of  you,"  he  promised.  "  You 
and  Gougou  will  go  with  us.  We  couldn't  leave 
you  on  this  side." 

"  In  de  dark  nights,"  shuddered  Francoise. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid,  any  time.  When  we 
156 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

are  off  during  the  day  we  always  leave  Jess  and 
Jim  to  guard  the  camp.  Jess  is  a  Scotch  collie  and 
Jim  is  a  blood -hound.  He's  there  in  the  kennel. 
Neither  man  nor  varmint  would  have  any  chance 
with  them." 

"I  been  use'  to  live  alone  when  my  husban'  is 
away,  M'sieu'  Brownee.  I  not  'fraid  like  you  t'ink. 
But  if  Gougou  be  cold  and  hongry." 

"Now  that's  enough,"  said  Brown,  with  gentle 
severity.  "  Gougou  will  never  be  cold  and  hungry 
again  while  there's  a  stick  of  wood  to  be  cut  on  the 
shores  of  this  lake,  or  any  game  to  bag,  or  a  'lunge 
to  spear  through  the  ice.  We  get  about  two  days' 
lumbering  a  week  down  by  St.  Ignace.  No  use  to 
work  more  than  two  days  a  week,"  he  explained, 
jocosely.  "That  gives  us  enough  to  live  on;  and 
everybody  around  here  owes  us  from  fifty  to  a 
hundred  dollars  back  pay  for  work,  anyhow.  I've 
bought  this  ground,  twenty  acres  of  it,  and  another 
year  I'm  going  to  turn  it  into  a  garden." 

"Oh,  a  garden,  M'sieu'  Brownee!  Me,  I  love 
some  garden !  I  plant  honion  once,  salade  also." 

"  But  I  want  to  get  my  fences  built  before  I  put 
in  improvements.  You  know  what  the  silver  rule 
is,  don't  you?" 

"No,  m'sieu',"  answered  Franchise,  vaguely. 
She  knew  little  of  any  rule. 

"  The  silver  rule  is  different  from  the  golden  rule. 
It's  '  Do  your  neighbors,  or  your  neighbors  will  do 
you.'  If  I  don't  protect  myself,  all  the  loose  cattle 
around  Brevoort  will  graze  over  me.  Every  fellow 

157 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

for  himself.  We  can't  keep  the  golden  rule.  We'd 
never  get  rich  if  we  did." 

"  You  are  rich  mans  ?"  interrogated  Francoise, 
focussing  her  curiosity  on  that  invisible  power  of 
wealth. 

"  Millionaires,"  brazenly  claimed  the  young  man, 
as  he  put  an  earthen-ware  pitcher  on  the  table. 
"  Set  there,  you  thousand-dollar  dish !  We  don't 
have  a  yacht  on  the  lake  because  we  prefer  small 
boats,  and  we  go  out  as  guides  to  have  fun  with 
the  greenhorns.  The  cooking  at  the  hotels  is  good 
enough  for  common  hunters  and  fishermen  who 
come  here  from  the  cities  to  spend  their  money, 
but  it  isn't  good  enough  for  me.  You've  come  to 
the  right  place,  you  may  make  your  mind  easy  on 
that." 

Francoise  smiled  because  he  told  her  to  make  her 
mind  easy,  not  because  she  understood  the  irony  of 
his  poverty.  To  have  secure  shelter,  and  such  a 
table  as  he  spread,  and  the  prowess  to  achieve 
continual  abundant  sustenance  from  the  world, 
made  wealth  in  her  eyes.  She  was  as  happy  as 
Gougou  when  this  strange  family,  gathered  from 
three  or  four  nations,  sat  down  to  their  first  meal. 

The  sun  went  low  like  a  scarlet  egg,  probing  the 
mother-of-pearl  lake  with  a  long  red  line  of  shadow, 
until  it  wasted  into  grayness  and  so  disappeared. 
Then  home-returning  sails  became  spiritualized,  and 
moved  in  mist  as  in  a  dream — foggy  lake  and  sky, 
as  one  body,  seeming  to  push  in  upon  the  land. 

Fran£oise  slept  the  sleep  of  a  healthy  woman, 
158 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

with  her  child  on  her  arm,  until  at  dawn  the  closed 
flap  of  the  tent  yielded  to  a  bounding  shape.  She 
opened  her  startled  eyes  to  see  Jim  the  blood-hound 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  jerking  the  mosquito-netting. 
He  growled  at  the  interlopers,  not  being  able  in  his 
canine  mind  to  reconcile  their  presence  with  his 
customary  duty  of  waking  his  masters  in  that  tent. 
A  call  and  a  whistle  at  the  other  side  of  the  camp 
drew  him  away  doubting.  But  in  a  day  both  he 
and  Jess  had  adopted  the  new  members  of  the  family 
and  walked  at  Gougou's  heels. 

Gougou  existed  in  wonderland.  He  regarded  the 
men  as  great  and  amiable  powers,  who  could  do 
what  they  pleased  with  the  elements  and  with  the 
creatures  of  the  earth.  They  had  a  fawn,  which 
had  followed  Brown  home  along  the  beach,  feeding 
on  leaves  from  his  hand.  They  had  built  it  a  sylvan 
home  of  cedar  boughs  behind  the  camp,  from  which 
it  wandered  at  will.  And  though  at  first  shy  of 
Gougou,  the  pretty  thing  was  soon  induced  to  stand 
upon  its  hind  feet  and  dance  for  bits  of  cake.  His 
Indian  blood  yearned  towards  the  fawn ;  but  Me 
thuselah,  the  mighty  turtle,  was  more  exciting. 
Methuselah  lived  a  prisoner  in  one  side  of  (he  bait- 
tank,  from  which  he  was  lifted  by  a  rope  around 
his  tail.  He  was  so  enormous  that  it  required  both 
Brown  and  Puttany  to  carry  him  up  the  bank,  and 
as  he  hung  from  the  pole  the  sudden  projection  of 
his  snapping  head  was  a  danger.  When  he  fastened 
his  teeth  into  a  stick,  the  stick  was  hopelessly  his 
as  long  as  he  chose  to  keep  it.  He  was  like  an 

159 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

elephant  cased  in  mottled  shell,  and  the  serrated 
ridge  on  his  tail  resembled  a  row  of  huge  brown 
teeth.  Methuselah  was  a  many- wrinkled  turtle. 
When  he  contracted,  imbedding  head  in  shoulders 
and  legs  in  body,  revealing  all  his  claws  and  show 
ing  wicked  little  eyes  near  the  point  of  his  nose, 
his  helpless  rage  stirred  all  the  Indian  ;  he  was  the 
most  deliciously  devilish  thing  that  Gougou  had 
ever  seen. 

Then  there  was  the  joy  of  wintergreen,  which 
both  men  brought  to  the  child,  and  he  learned  to 
forage  for  it  himself.  The  fleshy  dark  green  leaves 
and  red  berries  clustered  thickly  in  the  woods.  He 
and  his  mother  went  in  the  boat  when  the  day  was 
to  be  given  to  bass  or  pickerel  fishing,  and  he 
learned  great  lessons  of  water-lore  from  the  two 
men.  If  they  trusted  a  troll  line  to  his  baby  hands, 
he  was  in  a  state  of  beatitude.  His  object  in  life 
was  to  possess  a  bear  cub,  and  many  a  porcupine 
creeping  along  the  beach  he  mistook  for  that  desir 
able  property,  until  taught  to  distinguish  quills  from 
fur.  Gougou  heard,  and  he  believed,  that  all  por 
cupines  were  old  lumbermen,  who  never  died,  but 
simply  contracted  to  that  shape.  He  furtively 
stoned  them  when  he  could,  reflecting  that  they 
were  tough,  and  delighting  to  see  the  quills  fly. 

Fran9oise  would  sit  in  the  camp  like  a  picture  of 
still  life,  glowing  and  silent  at  her  appointed  labor. 
She  sewed  for  all  of  them,  looking  womanly  and 
unhurried,  with  a  pink-veined  moccasin-flower  in 
her  hair ;  while  Brown,  cooking  and  baking,  rushed 

160 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

from  tent  to  wood-pile,  his  sleeves  turned  back  from 
his  white,  muscular  arms.  He  lived  more  intensely 
than  any  other  member  of  the  sylvan  household. 
His  blue  eyes  shone,  and  his  face  was  vivid  as  he 
talked  to  her.  He  was  a  common  man,  blunted  in 
the  finer  nature  by  a  life  of  hardship,  yet  his  shrewd 
spirit  seized  on  much  that  less  facile  people  like 
Puttany  learned  slowly  or  not  at  all. 

Puttany  and  the  child  were  often  together  in  one 
long  play,  broken  only  by  the  man's  periods  of 
labor.  They  basked  in  a  boat  near  rushes,  waiting 
for  pickerel  to  strike,  or  waded  a  bog  to  a  trout 
stream  at  the  other  end  of  the  lake,  hid  in  a  forest 
full  of  windfalls  and  hoary  moss  and  tropical 
growths  of  brake  and  fern.  Gougouhadnew  strong 
clothes  and  buckskin  shoes.  For  the  patois  had 
not  been  a  week  in  camp  before  Brown  went  to  St. 
Ignace  and  brought  back  denim  and  white  and 
black  calico,  which  he  presented  to  Fran£oise. 

"  She  ought  to  have  a  kind  of  second  mourning," 
he  explained  to  Puttany,  who  received  his  word  on 
any  matter  as  law.  "  Joe  La  France  wasn't  worth 
wearing  first  mourning  for,  but  second  mourning  is 
decent  for  her,  and  it  won't  show  in  the  camp  like 
bright  colors  would." 

The  world  of  city-maddened  people  who  swarmed 
to  this  lake  for  their  annual  immersion  in  nature 
did  not  often  intrude  on  the  camp.  Yet  the  fact  of 
a  woman's  presence  there  could  not  be  concealed, 
and  Puttany  was  disciplined  to  say  to  strangers, 
"  Dot  vas  my  sister  and  her  little  poy." 

L  161 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

A  tiny  cabin  was  built  for  Fran£oise,  with  the 
luxuries  of  a  puncheon  floor  and  one  glazed  win 
dow.  She  inhabited  it  in  primitive  gladness,  as  a 
child  adorns  a  play-house,  and  was  careful  to  keep 
it  in  that  trim,  military  state  which  Brown  de 
manded.  Fran£oise  had  a  regard  for  M'sieu'  Put- 
tanee,  who  was  neat  and  ladylike  in  all  his  doings, 
and  smiled  amiably  at  her  over  her  boy's  head  ;  but 
her  veneration  of  M'sieu'  Brownee  extended  beyond 
the  reach  of  humor.  If  he  had  been  a  priest  he 
could  have  had  no  more  authority.  She  used  to 
watch  him  secretly  from  her  window  at  dawn,  as  he 
put  himself  through  a  morning  drill  to  limber  his 
muscles.  Some  spectators  might  have  laughed, 
but  she  heard  as  seriously  as  if  they  were  the 
motions  of  her  own  soul  his  tactics  with  a 
stick : 

"  Straight  out — across  the  shoulder — under  the 
arm — down  on  the  turf !" 

There  were  days  when  the  misty  gray  lake,  dim 
and  delicious,  lay  veiled  within  its  irregular  shores. 
Then  the  lowering  sun  stood  on  tree-tops,  a  pale  red 
wraith  like  the  ghost  of  an  Indian.  And  there 
were  days  of  sharp,  clear  shine,  when  Black  Point 
seemed  to  approach  across  the  water,  and  any  mov 
ing  object  could  be  seen  in  the  Burning — a  growth 
of  green  springing  where  the  woods  had  been  swept 
by  fire.  The  men  were  often  away,  guiding  fishing 
parties  from  dawn  until  sunset,  or  hunting  parties 
from  sunset  half  the  night.  Francoise  and  Gou- 
gou  dwelt  in  the  camp,  having  the  dogs  as  their 

162 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

protectors,  though  neither  primitive  nor  civilized 
life  menaced  them  there  with  any  danger.  Some 
evenings,  when  few  affairs  had  crowded  the  day, 
Brown  sat  like  a  patriarch  in  the  midst  of  his  family, 
and  took  Gougou  on  his  knee  to  hear  bear  stories. 
He  supervised  the  youngster's  manners  like  a 
mother,  and  Gougou  learned  to  go  down  to  the 
washing-place  and  use  soap  when  the  signs  were 
strong  for  bear-dens  and  deer-stalking. 

"  I  saw  a  bear  come  out  on  the  beach  once," 
Brown  would  tell  him,  "  when  I  was  stalking  for 
deer  and  had  a  doe  and  fawn  in  the  lake.  I  smelt 
him,  but  couldn't  get  him  to  turn  his  eyes  towards 
me.  I  killed  both  deer,  and  skinned  them,  and  cut 
up  one.  And  that  bear  went  into  the  woods  and 
howled  for  hours.  I  took  all  the  venison  I  could 
carry,  but  left  part  of  the  carcasses.  When  we 
went  after  them  in  the  morning,  the  bear  had  eaten 
all  up  clean." 

Bear-dens,  Gougou  was  informed,  might  be  found 
where  there  was  a  windfall.  The  bears  stuffed 
cracks  between  the  fallen  trees  with  moss,  and  so 
made  themselves  a  tight  house  in  which  to  hiber 
nate.  If  you  were  obliged  to  have  bear  meat  that 
season  when  the  game  was  thin,  you  could  cut  a 
hole  into  a  den,  stand  by  it  with  an  axe,  and  lop  off 
the  inquiring  head  stuck  out  to  investigate  disturb 
ances.  Bears  had  very  small  stomachs,  but  what 
ever  they  ate  went  to  fat.  They  walked  much  on 
their  hind  feet,  and  browsed  on  nuts  or  mast  when 
their  hunting  was  not  successful,  being  able  to 

163 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

thrive  on  little.  Usually  a  father,  a  mother,  and  a 
cub  formed  one  household  in  one  den. 

Brown's  mind  ran  on  the  subject  of 'households  ; 
and  he  sometimes  talked  to  Franchise  about  his 
mother. 

"  My  mother  Gaelics  like  the  Scotch,"  he  said. 
Francoise  could  not  imagine  what  it  was  to  Gaelic. 
People  had  not  Gaelic-ed  on  the  Chaudiere,  where 
she  was  brought  up  until  the  children  were  obliged 
to  scatter  from  the  narrow  farm.  But  the  priest 
had  never  warned  her  against  it,  and  since  M'sieu' 
Brownee's  mother  was  addicted  to  the  practice,  it 
must  be  something  excellent,  perhaps  even  religious. 
She  secretly  invoked  St.  Francis,  her  patron  saint, 
to  obtain  for  her  that  mysterious  power  of  Gaelic- 
ing  of  which  M'sieu'  Brownee  spoke  so  tenderly. 

So  the  summer  passed,  and  frost  was  already 
ripening  to  glory  the  ranks  on  ranks  of  dense  forest 
pressing  to  the  lake  borders.  Brown  and  Puttany 
rowed  home  through  an  early  September  evening, 
lifted  their  boat  to  its  cross-piece  dock,  and  pulled 
the  plug  out  of  the  bottom  to  let  it  drain.  There 
was  no  sound,  even  of  the  dogs,  as  they  flung  their 
spoil  ashore.  It  was  the  very  instant  of  moon-rise. 
At  first  a  copper  rim  was  answered  by  the  faintest 
line  in  the  water.  Then  the  full  reddish  disk  stood 
upon  a  strong  copper  pillar,  smooth  and  flawless  in 
a  rippleless  lake,  and  that  became  denuded  of  its 
capital  as  the  ball  rose  over  it  into  the  sky. 

"  Seems  still,"  remarked  Brown,  and  he  ran  up 
the  path,  shaking  leaf  loam  like  dry  tobacco  dust 

164 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

from  the  roots  of  ferns  he  had  brought  to  Fran- 
coise.  He  knew  at  once  that  she  and  Gougou  had 
left  the  camp.  He  sat  down  on  the  dog-kennel 
with  his  hands  on  his  knees,  staring  at  the  dim 
earth.  Puttany  went  from  tent  to  cabin,  calling 
his  daily  playmate,  unable  to  convince  himself  that 
some  unusual  thing  had  happened,  and  he  hoped 
that  Brown  would  contradict  him  when  he  felt  com 
pelled  to  announce  his  slow  discovery. 

"  Dey  vas  gone!" 

"  Damn  you,  Puttany !"  exploded  his  partner, 
"  what  did  you  bring  her  here  for?  I  didn't  want 
to  get  into  this !  I  wanted  to  steer  clear  of  women! 
You  knew  I  was  soft!  You  knew  her  black  eyes, 
and  the  child  that  made  her  seem  like  the  Yirgin, 
would  get  in  their  work  on  me !" 

"  No,  I  didn't,"  said  Puttany,  in  phlegmatic  con 
sternation. 

"  What's  the  matter,  Frank  ?  Haven't  we  be 
haved  white  to  this  woman?  Have  you  done  any 
thing,  you  stupid  old  Dutchman,"  cried  Brown, 
collaring  his  partner  with  abrupt  violence,  "  that 
would  drive  her  out  of  the  camp  without  a  word  ?" 

"  I  svear,  Prowny,"  the  other  gasped,  as  soon  as 
he  had  breath  for  swearing,  "  I  haf  been  so  polite 
to  her  as  my  own  mudder." 

The  younger  man  sat  down  again,  dropping  lax 
hands  across  his  knees.  A  growl  inside  the  box  re 
minded  him  that  Jim  the  blood -hound  should  be 
brought  to  account  for  this  disappearance. 

"  Come  out  here !"  he  commanded,  and  the  lithe 
165 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

beast  crept  wagging  and  apologizing  to  his  side. 
"  What  kind  of  a  way  is  this  for  you  to  keep  a  camp 
— Jess  sitting  in  the  kitchen,  and  you  in  the  box, 
and  somebody  carrying  off  Francoise  and  the  boy, 
and  every  rag  that  would  show  they  had  ever  been 
here — and  not  a  sound  out  of  your  cowardly  head 
till  we  come  home  and  catch  you  skulking  ?  I've  a 
notion  to  take  a  board  and  beat  you  to  death !" 

Jim  lay  down  with  an  abject  and  dismal  whine. 

"  Where  is  she  ?" 

Jim  lifted  his  nose  and  sniffed  hopefully,  and  his 
master  rose  up  and  dragged  him  by  the  collar  to 
the  empty  cabin.  It  was  the  first  time  Brown  had 
entered  that  little  cell  since  its  dedication  to  the 
woman  for  whom  it  was  built.  He  rubbed  Jim's 
muzzle  against  the  bed,  and  pointed  to  nails  in  the 
logs  where  the  clothes  of  the  patois  had  hung. 

"Now  you  lope  out  and  find  them — do  you 
hear  P 

Jim,  crouching  on  his  belly  in  acknowledgment 
that  his  apprehension  had  been  at  fault  during  some 
late  encounter,  slunk  across  the  camp  and  took  the 
path  to  the  hotels. 

Brown  turned  on  Puttany  following  at  his  heels: 
"  Frank,  are  you  sure  Joe  La  France  is  dead  ?" 

"  Oh  yes,  he  is  det." 

"  Did  you  see  him  die  ?  Were  you  there  when 
he  was  buried?  Was  he  put  underground  with 
plenty  of  dirt  on  top  of  him,  or  did  he  merely  drop 
in  the  water  ?" 

"  I  vas  not  there." 

166 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

"Maybe  the  lazy  hound  has  resurrected.  I've 
seen  these  lumbermen  dropped  into  the  water  and 
drowned  too  often.  You  can  never  be  sure  they 
won't  be  up  drinking  and  fighting  to-morrow  unless 
you  run  a  knife  through  them." 

"  He  is  a  det  man,"  affirmed  Puttany. 

"  Then  somebody  else  has  carried  her  off,  and  I'm 
going  to  know  all  about  it  before  I  come  back  to 
camp.  If  I  never  come  back,  you  may  have  the 
stuff  and  land.  I'm  in  this  heels  over  head,  and  I 
don't  care  how  soon  things  end  with  me." 

"  But,  Prowny,  old  poy,  I  vill  help  you — 

"  You  stay  here.     This  is  my  hunt." 

Jim  passed  the  rustic  guest-houses  without  turn 
ing  aside  from  the  trail.  Brown  took  no  thought 
of  inquiring  at  their  doors,  for  throughout  the  sum 
mer  Francoise  had  not  once  been  seen  at  the  hotels. 
He  did,  however,  hastily  borrow  a  horse  from  the 
stable  where  he  was  privileged,  and  pursuing  the 
blood-hound  along  the  lake  shore,  he  cantered  over 
a  causeway  of  logs  and  earth  which  had  been  raised 
above  a  swamp. 

The  trail  was  very  fresh,  for  Jim,  without  swerv 
ing,  followed  the  road  where  it  turned  at  right 
angles  from  the  shore  and  wound  inland  among 
stumps.  They  had  nearly  reached  Allanville,  a 
group  of  log  huts  beside  a  north-shore  railroad, 
when  Jim  uttered  the  bay  of  victory. 

Brown  dropped  from  the  saddle  and  called  him 
sternly  back.  To  be  hunting  Fran£oise  with  a 
blood-hound  out  of  leash — how  horrible  was  this ! 

167 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

He  tied  his  horse  to  a  tree  and  took  Jim  by  the  col 
lar,  restraining  the  creature's  fierce  joy  of  discovery. 
Francoise  must  be  near,  unless  a  hound  whose  scent 
was  unerring  had  become  a  fool. 

What  if  she  had  left  camp  of  her  own  will  ?  She 
was  so  quiet,  one  could  not  be  sure  of  her  thoughts. 
Brown  was  sure  of  his  thoughts.  He  grinned  in  the 
lonely  landscape,  seeing  himself  as  he  had  appeared 
on  recent  Sundays,  in  his  best  turtle -tail  neck-tie 
mounted  on  velvet. 

« I've  got  it  bad,"  he  confessed. 

Stooping  to  Jim's  collar  while  the  dog  whined 
and  strained,  he  passed  a  cabin.  And  there  Jim  re 
laxed  in  the  search  and  turned  around.  The  moon 
stood  high  enough  to  make  a  wan  fairy  daylight. 
Gougou,  like  a  gnome,  started  from  the  ground  to 
meet  them,  and  the  dog  at  once  lay  down  and 
fawned  at  his  feet. 

More  slowly  approaching  from  the  cabin,  Brown 
saw  Franpoise,  still  carrying  in  her  hand  the  bundle 
of  her  belongings  brought  from  camp.  In  the 
shadow  of  the  house  a  man  watched  the  encounter, 
and  a  sift  of  rank  tobacco  smoke  hinted  the  pipes 
of  fathers  and  sons  resting  from  the  day's  labor  on 
the  cabin  door-sill  or  the  sward.  Voices  of  children 
could  be  heard,  and  other  dogs  gave  mouth,  so  that 
Brown  laid  severe  commands  on  Jim  before  he  could 
tremblingly  speak  to  Franpoise. 

"  Oh,  M'sieu'  Brownee,  I  t'ink  maybe  you  come !" 

"But,  Francoise,  what  made  you  leave?" 

"It  is  my  husban's  br udder.  I  not  know  what 
168 


THE    CURSED    PATOIS 

to  do!     He  bring  us  to  dese  folks  to  stay  all  night 
till  de  cars  go." 

"Why  didn't  he  show  himself  to  us,  and  take 
you  like  a  man?" 

"  Oh,  M'sieu'  Brownee — he  say  de  priest  hexcom- 
municate  me — to  live — so — in  de  camp!  It  is  not 
my  fault — and  I  t'ink  about  you  and  M'sieu'  Put- 
tanee — and  Gougou  he  bite  his  honcle,  and  kick  and 
scream !" 

"  Damn  the  uncle !"  swore  Brown,  deeply. 

"  Oh,  I  been  so  anxion !"  sobbed  Francoise. 

"We  must  be  married  right  off,"  said  Browu. 
"  I'll  fix  your  brother-in-law.  Franyoise,  will  yon 
have  me  for  your  husband?" 

"Me,  M'sieu'  Brownee?" 

"  Yes,  you— you  cursed  sweet  patois !" 

"M'sieu'  Brownee,  you  may  call  me  de  cursed 
patois.  I  not  know  anyt'ings.  But  when  Andre 
La  France  take  me  away,  oh,  I  t'ink  I  die!  Let 
me  honly  be  Francoise  to  do  your  mend'!  I  be 
'appier  to  honly  look  at  you  dan  some  womans  who 
'ave'usban'!" 

"  Fran£oise,  kiss  me — kiss  me !"  His  voice  broke 
with  a  sob.  "  If  you  loved  me  you  would  have 
me!" 

"M'sieu'  Brownee,  I  ado'  you!" 

Suddenly  giving  way  to  passionate  weeping,  and 
to  all  the  tenderness  which  nature  teaches  even 
barbarians  to  repress,  she  abandoned  herself  to  his 
arms. 

169 


THE  MOTHERS  OF  HONOEE 


THE  sun  was  shining  again  after  squalls,  and 
the  strait  showed  violet,  green,  red,  and 
bronze  lines,  melting  and  inter  mingling  each 
changing  second.  Metallic  lustres  shone  as  if  some 
volcanic  fountain  on  the  lake-bed  were  spraying  the 
surface.  Jules  McCarty  stood  at  his  gate,  noting 
this  change  in  the  weather  with  one  eye.  He  was 
a  small,  old  man,  having  the  appearance  of  a  mum 
mied  boy.  His  cheek-bones  shone  apple-red,  and 
his  partial  blindness  had  merely  the  effect  of  a  pro 
longed  wink.  Jules  was  keeping  melancholy  holi 
day  in  his  best  clothes,  the  well-preserved  coat 
parting  its  jaunty  tails  a  little  below  the  middle  of 
his  back. 

Another  old  islander  paused  at  the  gate  in  pass 
ing.  The  two  men  shook  their  heads  at  each 
other. 

"I  went  to  your  wife's  funeral  this  morning, 
Jules,"  said  the  passer,  impressing  on  the  widower's 
hearing  an  important  fact  which  might  have  escaped 
his  one  eye. 

"  You  was  at  de  funer'l  ?    Did  you  see  Theresef ' 

"  Yes,  I  saw  her." 

170 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORE 

"  Ah,  what  a  fat  woman  dat  was!  I  make  some 
of  de  peop'  feel  her  arm.  I  feed  her  well." 

The  other  old  man  smiled,  but  he  was  bound  to 
say, 

"  I'm  sorry  for  you,  Jules." 

"  Did  you  see  me  at  de  church  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  went  to  the  church." 

"  You  t'ink  I  feel  bad— eh «" 

"  I  thought  you  felt  pretty  bad." 

"  You  go  to  de  graveyard,  too  ?" 

"  No,"  admitted  his  sympathizer,  reluctantly,  "  I 
didn't  go  to  the  graveyard." 

"  But  dat  was  de  fines'.  You  ought  see  me  at  de 
graveyard.  You  t'ink  I  feel  bad  at  de  church — I 
raise  hell  at  de  graveyard." 

The  friend  shuffled  his  feet  and  coughed  behind 
his  hand. 

"Yes,  I  feel  bad,  me,"  ruminated  the  bereaved 
man.  "  You  get  used  to  some  woman  in  de  house 
and  not  know  where  to  get  anodder." 

"  Haven't  you  had  your  share,  Jules  f  inquired 
his  friend,  relaxing  gladly  to  banter. 

"  I  have  one  fine  wife,  maman  to  Honore,"  enu 
merated  Jules,  "  and  de  squaw,  and  Lavelotte's 
widow,  and  Therese.  It  is  not  much." 

"  I've  often  wondered  why  you  didn't  take  Me- 
linda  Cree.  You've  no  objection  to  Indians.  She's 
next  door  to  you,  and  she  knows  how  to  nurse  in 
sickness,  besides  being  a  good  washer  and  ironer. 
The  summer  folks  say  she  makes  the  best  fish  pies 
on  the  island." 

171 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORS 

"  It  is  de  trut' !"  exclaimed  Jules,  a  new  light 
shining  in  his  dim  blue  eye  as  he  turned  it  towards 
the  house  of  Melinda  Cree.  The  weather-worn, 
low  domicile  was  bowered  in  trees.  There  was  a 
convenient  stile  two  steps  high  in  the  separating 
fence,  and  it  had  long  been  made  a  thoroughfare 
by  the  families.  On  the  top  step  sat  Clethera, 
Melinda  Cree's  granddaughter.  Clethera  had  been 
Honore's  playmate  since  infancy.  She  was  a  lithe, 
dark  girl,  with  more  of  her  French  father  in  her 
than  of  her  half-breed  mother.  Some  needle-work 
busied  her  hands,  but  her  ear  caught  every  accent 
of  the  conference  at  the  gate.  She  flattened  her 
lips,  and  determined  to  tell  Honore  as  soon  as  he 
came  in  with  the  boat.  Honore  was  the  favorite 
skipper  of  the  summer  visitors.  He  went  out  im 
mediately  after  the  funeral  to  earn  money  to  apply 
on  his  last  mother's  burial  expenses. 

When  the  old  men  parted,  Clethera  examined  her 
grandmother  with  stealthy  eyes  in  a  kind  of  aborig 
inal  reconnoitring.  Melinda  Cree's  black  hair  and 
dark  masses  of  wrinkles  showed  through  a  sashless 
shed  window  where  she  stood  at  her  ironing-board. 
Her  stoical  eyelids  were  lowered,  and  she  moved 
with  the  rhythmical  motion  of  the  smoothing-iron. 
"Whether  she  had  overheard  the  talk,  or  was  medi 
tating  on  her  own  matrimonial  troubles,  was  im 
possible  to  gather  from  facial  muscles  rigid  as 
carved  wood.  Melinda  Cree  was  one  of  the  few 
pure-blooded  Indians  on  the  island.  If  she  was 
fond  of  anything  in  the  world,  her  preference  had 

173 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORE 

not  declared  itself,  though  previous  to  receiving  her 
orphaned  granddaughter  into  her  house  she  had 
consented  to  become  the  bride  of  a  drunken  youth 
in  his  teens.  This  incipient  husband — before  he 
got  drowned  in  a  squall  off  Detour,  thereby  saving 
his  aged  wife  some  outlay — visited  her  only  when 
he  needed  funds,  and  she  silently  paid  the  levy  if 
her  toil  had  provided  the  means.  He  also  inclined 
to  offer  delicate  attentions  to  Clethera,  who  spat  at 
him  like  a  cat,  and  at  sight  of  him  ever  afterwards 
took  to  the  attic,  locking  the  door. 

But  while  Melinda  Cree  submitted  to  the  shackles 
of  civilization,  she  did  not  entirely  give  up  the  ways 
of  her  own  people.  She  kept  a  conical  tent  of  poles 
and  birch  bark  in  her  back  yard,  in  which  she  slept 
during  summer.  And  she  was  noted  as  wise  and 
skilled  in  herbs,  guarding  their  secrets  so  jealously 
that  the  knowledge  was  likely  to  die  with  her. 
Once  she  appeared  at  the  bedside  of  a  dying  islander, 
and  asked,  as  the  doctor  had  withdrawn,  to  try  her 
own  remedies.  Permission  being  given,  she  went 
to  the  kitchen,  took  some  dried  vegetable  substance 
from  her  pocket,  and  made  a  tea  of  it.  A  little 
was  poured  down  the  sick  man's  throat.  He  revived. 
He  drank  more,  and  grew  better.  Melinda  Cree's 
decoction  cured  him,  and  the  chagrined  doctor  visit- 
edher  to  learn  what  wonderful  remedy  she  had  used. 

"  It  was  nothing  but  some  little  bushes,"  responded 
the  Indian  woman. 

"  If  you  tell  me  what  they  are,  I  will  pay  you 
fifty  dollars,"  he  pleaded. 

173 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORS 

Melinda  Cree  shook  her  head.  She  continued  to 
repeat,  as  he  raised  the  bid  higher,  "  It  was  nothing 
but  some  little  bushes,  doctor;  it  was  nothing  but 
some  little  bushes." 

Clethera  felt  the  same  kind  of  protecting  tender 
ness  for  this  self -res  trained  squaw  that  Honore  had 
for  his  undersized  parent,  whom  he  always  called 
by  the  baptismal  name.  Melinda  had  been  the 
wife  of  a  great  medicine-man,  who  wore  a  trailing 
blanket,  and  white  gulls'  wings  bound  around  and 
spread  behind  his  head.  During  his  lifetime  he 
was  often  seen  stretched  on  his  back  invoking  the 
sun.  A  stranger  observing  him  declared  he  was 
using  the  signs  of  Freemasonry,  and  must  know  its 
secrets. 

With  the  readiness  of  custom,  Honore  and  Cle 
thera  met  each  other  at  the  steps  in  the  fence  about 
dusk.  She  sat  down  on  her  side,  and  he  sat  down 
on  his,  the  broad  top  of  the  stile  separating  them. 
Honore  was  a  stalwart  Saxon-looking  youth  in  his 
early  twenties.  Wind  and  weather  had  painted  his 
large -featured  countenance  a  rosy  tan.  By  the 
employing  class  Honore  was  considered  one  of  the 
finest  and  most  promising  young  quarter-breeds  on 
the  island. 

The  fresh  moist  odor  of  the  lake,  with  its  incessant 
wash  upon  pebbles,  came  to  them  accompanied  by 
piercing  sweetness  of  wild  roses.  For  the  wind  had 
turned  to  the  west,  raking  fragrant  thickets.  Dusk 
was  moving  from  eastern  fastnesses  to  rock  battle 
ments  still  tinged  with  sunset.  The  fort,  dismantled 

174 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORfi 

of  its  garrison,  reared  a  whitewashed  crown  against 
the  island's  back  of  evergreens. 

Both  Honore  and  Clethera  knew  there  was  a 
Spanish  war.  As  summer  day  followed  summer 
day,  the  village  seethed  with  it,  as  other  spots  then 
seethed.  A  military  post,  even  when  dismantled, 
always  brings  home  to  the  community  where  it  is 
situated  the  dignity  and  pomp  of  arms.  Young 
men  enlisted,  and  Honore  restlessly  followed,  with 
a  friend  from  the  North  Shore,  to  look  at  the  camp. 
His  pulses  beat  with  the  drums.  But  he  was  carry 
ing  the  burden  of  the  family;  to  leave  Jules  and 
Jules's  dependent  wife  would  be  deserting  infants. 

Clethera  gave  little  more  thought  to  fleets  sailing 
tropical  seas  than  to  La  Salle's  vanished  Griffin  on 
Northern  waters.  It  was  nothing  to  her,  for  she 
had  never  heard  of  it,  that  pioneers  of  her  father's 
blood  once  trod  that  island,  and  lifted  up  the  cross 
at  St.  Ignace,  and  planted  outposts  along  the  South 
Shore.  Bareheaded,  or  with  a  crimson  kerchief 
bound  about  her  hair,  she  loved  to  help  her  grand 
mother  spread  the  white  clothes  to  bleach,  or  to 
be  seen  and  respected  as  a  prosperous  laundress 
carrying  her  basket  through  the  teeming  streets. 
The  island  was  her  world.  Its  crowds  in  sum 
mer  brought  variety  enough ;  and  its  virgin  winter 
snows,  the  dog -si  edges,  the  ice-boats,  were  month 
by  month  a  procession  of  joys. 

Clethera  wondered  that  Honore  persistently  went 
where  newspapers  were  read  and  discussed.  He 
stuffed  them  in  his  pockets,  and  pored  over  them 

175 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORS 

while  waiting  in  his  boat  beside  the  wharf.  People 
would  fight  out  that  war  with  Spain.  What  thrilled 
her  was  the  boom  of  winter  surf,  piling  iridescent 
frozen  spume  as  high  as  a  man's  head,  and  rimming 
the  island  in  a  corona  of  shattered  rainbows.  And 
she  had  an  eye  for  summer  lightning  infusing  itself 
through  sheets  of  water  as  if  descending  in  the 
downpour,  glorifying  for  one  instant  every  distinct 
drop. 

The  pair  sitting  with  the  broad  top  step  betwixt 
them  exchanged  the  smiling  good-will  of  youth. 

"  I  take  some  more  party  out  to-night  for  de  light- 
moon  sail,"  said  Honore,  pleased  to  report  his  pros 
perity.  "  It  is  consider'  gran'  to  sail  in  de  light- 
moon." 

"  Did  you  find  de  hot  fish  pie?"  inquired  Clethera, 
solicitous  about  man  thrown  on  his  own  resources 
as  cook. 

Honore  acknowledged  with  hearty  gratitude  the 
supper  which  Melinda  Cree  had  baked  and  her 
granddaughter  had  carried  into  the  bereaved  house 
while  its  inmates  were  out. 

"  They  not  get  fish  pie  like  that  in  de  war.  Jules, 
he  say  it  is  better  than  poor  Therese  could  make," 
Honore  added,  handsomely,  with  large  unsuspicion. 

Clethera  shook  a  finger  in  his  face. 

"  Honore  McCarty,  you  got  watch  dat  Jules !  I 
got  to  watch  Melinda.  Simon  Leslie,  he  have  come 
by  and  put  it  in  Jules'  head  since  de  funer'l!  I  hear 
it,  me." 

The  young  man's  face  changed  through  the  dusk. 
176 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORS 

He  braced  his  back  against  the  fence  and  breathed 
the  deep  sigh  of  tried  patience. 

"  Honore,  how  many  mothers  is  it  you  have  al 
ready?" 

"  I  have  not  count',"  said  the  young  man,  testily. 

"  Count  dem  mothers,"  ordered  Clethera. 

"Maman,"he  began  the  enumeration,  reverently. 
His  companion  allowed  him  a  minute's  silence  after 
the  mention  of  that  fine  woman. 

"  One,"  she  tallied. 

"  Nex',"  proceeded  Honore, "  poor  Jules  is  involve' 
with  de  Chippewa  woman." 

"  Two,"  clinched  Clethera. 

The  Chippewa  squaw  was  a  sore  theme.  She 
had  entered  Jules's  wigwam  in  good  faith;  but 
during  one  of  his  merry  carouses,  while  both  Honore 
and  the  priest  were  absent,  he  traded  her  off  to 
a  North  Shore  man  for  a  horse.  Long  after  she 
tramped  away  across  the  frozen  strait  with  her  new 
possessor,  and  all  trace  of  her  was  lost,  Jules  had 
the  grace  to  be  shamefaced  about  the  scandal;  but 
he  got  a  good  bargain  in  the  horse. 

"Then  there  is  Lavelotte's  widow,"  continued 
Honore. 

"  Three,"  marked  Clethera. 

Yes,  there  was  Lavelotte's  widow,  the  worst  of 
all.  She  whipped  little  Jules  unmercifully,  and  if 
Honore  had  not  taken  his  part  and  stood  before 
him,  she  might  have  ended  by  being  Jules's  widow. 
She  stripped  him  of  his  whole  fortune,  four  hundred 
dollars,  when  he  finally  obtained  a  separation  from 
M  177 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORfi 

her.  But  instead  of  curing  him,  this  experience 
only  whetted  his  zest  for  another  wife. 

"And  there  is  Therese."  Honore  did  not  say, 
"  Last,  Therese."  While  Jules  lived  and  his  wives 
died,  or  were  traded  off  or  divorced,  there  would 
be  no  last. 

"  It  is  four,"  declared  Clethera  ;  and  the  count 
was  true.  Honore  had  taken  Jules  in  hand  like  a 
father,  after  the  adventure  with  Lavelotte's  widow. 
He  made  his  parent  work  hard  at  the  boat,  and  in 
winter  walked  him  to  and  from  mass  literally  with 
hand  on  collar.  He  encouraged  the  little  man, 
moreover,  with  a  half  interest  in  their  house  on 
the  beach,  which  long-accumulated  earnings  of  the 
boat  paid  for.  But  all  this  care  was  thrown  away ; 
though  after  Jules  brought  Therese  home,  and  saw 
that  Honore  was  not  appeased  by  a  woman's  cook 
ing,  he  had  qualms  about  the  homestead,  and  secret 
ly  carried  the  deed  back  to  the  original  owner. 

"  I  want  you  keep  my  part  of  de  deed,"  he  ex 
plained.  "  I  not  let  some  more  women  rob  Hono 
re.  My  wife,  if  she  get  de  deed  in  her  han',  she 
might  sell  de  whole  t'ing !" 

"  Why,  no,  Jules,  she  couldn't  sell  your  real  es 
tate  !"  the  former  owner  declared.  "  She  would 
only  have  a  life  interest  in  your  share." 

"  You  say  she  couldn't  sell  it  ?" 

"  No.   She  would  have  nothing  but  a  life  interest." 

"  She  have  only  life  interest  ?  By  gar  !  I  t'ink  I 
pay  somebody  twenty  dollar  to  kill  her !" 

But  lacking  both  twenty  dollars  and  determina- 
178 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORfi 

tion,  he  lived  peaceably  with  Therese  until  she  died 
a  natural  death,  on  that  occasion  proudly  doing  his 
whole  duty  as  a  man  and  a  mourner. 

Eemembering  these  affairs,  which  had  not  been 
kept  secret  from  anybody  on  the  island,  Clethera 
spoke  out  under  conviction. 

"  Honore,  it  a  scandal'  t'ing,  to  get  marry." 

"  Me,  I  t'ink  so  too,"  assented  Honore. 

"  Jules  McCarty  have  disgrace'  his  son  !" 

"  Melinda  Cree,"  retorted  Honore,  obliged  to  de 
fend  his  own,  "  she  take  a  little  'usban'  honly  nine 
teen." 

"  She  'ave  no  chance  like  Jules  ;  she  is  oblige'  to 
wait  and  take  what  invite  her." 

The  voices  of  children  from  other  quarter-breed 
cottages,  playing  along  the  beach,  added  cheer  to 
the  sweet  darkness.  Clethera  and  Honore  sat  si 
lently  enjoying  each  other's  company,  unconscious 
that  their  aboriginal  forefathers  had  courted  in 
that  manner,  sitting  under  arbors  of  branches. 

"  Why  do  peop'  want  to  get  marry  ?"  propound 
ed  Clethera. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Honore". 

"  Me,  if  some  man  hask  me,  I  box  his  ear !  I 
have  know  you  all  my  life  —  but  don'  you  never 
hask  me  to  get  marry  !" 

"  I  not  such  a  fool,"  heartily  responded  Honore. 
"  You  and  me,  we  have  seen  de  folly.  I  not  form 
de  habit,  like  Jules." 

"  But  what  we  do,  Honore,  to  keep  dat  Jules  and 
dat  Melinda  apart  $" 

179 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORS 

Though  they  discussed  many  plans,  the  sequel 
showed  that  nothing  effectual  could  be  done.  All 
their  traditions  and  instincts  were  against  making 
themselves  disagreeable  or  showing  discourtesy  to 
their  elders.  The  young  man's  French  and  Irish 
and  Chippewa  blood,  and  the  young  girl's  French 
and  Cree  blood  exhausted  all  their  inherited  diplo 
macy.  But  as  steadily  as  the  waters  set  like  a 
strong  tide  through  the  strait,  in  spite  of  wind 
which  combed  them  to  ridging  foam,  the  rapid 
courtship  of  age  went  on. 

In  carrying  laundered  clothing  through  the  vil 
lage  street,  Melinda  Cree  was  carefully  chaperoned 
by  her  granddaughter,  and  Honore  kept  Jules 
under  orders  in  the  boat.  But  of  early  mornings 
and  late  twilights  there  was  no  restraining  the 
twittering  widower. 

"  Melinda  'tend  to  her  work  and  is  behave  if 
Jules  let  her  alone,"  Clethera  reported  to  Honore. 
"  But  he  slip  around  de  garden  and  talk  over  de 
back  fence,  and  he  is  by  de  ironing-board  de  minute 
my  back  is  turn' !  If  he  belong  to  me,  I  could 
'mos'  whip  him !" 

"  Jules  McCarty,"  declared  Honore,  with  some 
bitterness,  "  when  he  fix  his  min'  to  marry  some 
more,  he  is  not  turn'  if  he  is  hexcommunicate' !" 

Jules,  indeed,  became  so  bold  that  he  crowded 
across  the  stile  through  the  very  conferences  of  the 
pair  united  to  prevent  him ;  and  his  loud  voice 
could  be  heard  beside  Melinda's  ironing-board,  pro 
claiming  in  the  manner  of  a  callow  young  suitor. 

180 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORfi 

"  Some  peop'  like  separate  us,  Melinda,  but  we 
not  let  them." 

The  conflict  of  Honore  and  Clethera  with  Jules 
and  Melinda  ended  one  day  in  August.  There  had 
been  no  domestic  clamor  in  this  silent  grapple  of 
forces.  The  young  man  used  no  argument  except 
maxims  and  morals  and  a  tightening  of  authority  ; 
the  young  girl  permitted  neither  neighboring  maids 
nor  the  duties  of  religion  to  lure  her  off  guard.  It 
may  be  said  of  any  French  half-breed  that  he  has 
all  the  instincts  of  gentility  except  an  inclination 
to  lying,  and  that  arises  from  excessive  politeness. 

Honore  came  to  the  fence  at  noon  and  called 
Clethera.  In  his  excitement  he  crossed  the  stile 
and  stood  on  her  premises. 

"  It  no  use,  Clethera.  Jules  have  tell  me  this 
morning  he  have  arrange'  de  marriage." 

Clethera  glanced  behind  her  at  the  house  she 
called  home,  and  threw  herself  in  Honore's  arms, 
as  she  had  often  done  in  childish  despairs.  Neither 
misunderstood  the  action,  and  it  relieved  them  to 
shed  a  few  tears  on  each  other's  necks.  This  truly 
Latin  outburst  being  over,  they  stood  apart  and 
wiped  their  eyes  on  their  sleeves. 

"  It  no  use,"  exclaimed  Clethera,  "  to  set  a  good 
examp'  to  your  grandmother !" 

"  I  not  wait  any  longer  now,"  announced  Hon 
ore,  giving  rein  to  fierce  eagerness.  "  I  go  to  de 
war  to-day." 

"  But  de  camp  is  move',"  objected  Clethera. 

"  I  have  pass'  de  examin',  and  I  know  de  man  to 
181 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORS 

go  to  when  I  am  ready  ;  he  promis'  to  get  me  into 
de  war.  Jules  have  de  sails  up  now,  ready  to  take 
me  across  to  de  train." 

"But  who  will  have  de  boat  when  you  are  gone, 
Honore?" 

"  Jules.     And  he  bring  Melinda  to  de  house." 

"  She  not  come.  She  not  leave  her  own  house. 
She  take  her  'usban'  in." 

"  Then  Jules  must  rent  de  house.  You  not  de 
test  poor  Jules  ?" 

"  I  not  detest  him  like  de  hudder  one." 

"  Au  'voir,  Clethera." 

"  Au  'voir,  Honore." 

They  shook  hands,  the  young  man  wringing  him 
self  away  with  the  animation  of  one  who  goes,  the 
girl  standing  in  the  dull  anxiety  of  one  who  stays. 
War,  so  remote  that  she  had  heard  of  it  indiffer 
ently,  rushed  suddenly  from  the  tropics  over  the 
island. 

"  Are  your  clothes  all  mend'  and  ready,  Hon 
ore?" 

But  what  thought  can  a  young  man  give  to  his 
clothes  when  about  to  wrap  himself  in  glory?  He 
is  politely  tapping  at  the  shed  window  of  the  Ind 
ian  woman,  and  touching  his  cap  in  farewell  and 
gallant  capitulation,  and  with  long-limbed  sweeping 
haste,  unusual  in  a  quarter-breed,  he  is  gone  .to  the 
docks,  with  a  bundle  under  one  arm,  waving  his 
hand  as  he  passes.  All  the  women  and  children 
along  the  street  would  turn  out  to  see  him  go  to 
the  war  if  his  intention  were  known,  and  even  sum- 

182 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORE 

mer  idlers  about  the  bazars  would  look  at  him  with 
new  interest. 

Clethera  could  not  imagine  the  moist  and  horrid 
heat  of  those  southern  latitudes  into  which  Honore 
departed  to  throw  himself.  Shifting  mists  on  the 
lake  rim  were  no  vaguer  than  her  conception  of 
her  country's  mighty  undertaking.  But  she  could 
feel;  and  the  life  she  had  lived  to  that  day  was 
wrenched  up  by  the  roots,  leaving  her  as  with  a 
bleeding  socket. 

All  afternoon  she  drenched  herself  with  soapsuds 
in  the  ferocity  of  her  washing.  By  the  time  Jules 
returned  with  the  boat,  the  lake  was  black  as  ink 
under  a  storm  cloud,  with  glints  of  steel ;  a  dull 
bar  stretched  diagonally  across  the  water.  Beyond 
that  a  whitening  of  rain  showed  against  the  ho 
rizon.  Points  of  cedars  on  the  opposite  island 
pricked  a  sullen  sky. 

Clethera's  tubs  were  under  the  trees.  She  paid 
no  attention  to  what  befell  her,  or  to  her  grand 
mother,  who  called  her  out  of  the  rain.  It  came 
like  a  powder  of  dust,  and  then  a  moving,  blanched 
wall,  pushing  islands  of  flattened  mist  before  it. 
Under  a  steady  pour  the  waters  turned  dull  green, 
and  lightened  shade  by  shade  as  if  diluting  an  in 
fusion  of  grass.  "Waves  began  to  come  in  regular 
windrows.  Though  Clethera  told  herself  savagely 
she  not  care- for  anything  in  de  world,  her  Indian 
eye  took  joy  of  these  sights.  The  shower-bath 
from  the  trees  she  endured  without  a  shiver. 

Jules  sat  beside  Melinda  to  be  comforted.    He 

183 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORS 

wept  for  Honore,  and  praised  his  boy,  gasconading 
with  time-worn  boasts. 

"  I  got  de  hang  of  him,  and  now  I  got  to  part ! 
But  de  war  will  end,  now  Honore  have  gone  into 
it.  His  gran'fodder  was  such  a  fighter  when  de 
British  come  to  take  de  island,  he  turn'  de  can 
non  and  blow  de  British  off.  The  gran'fodder  of 
Honore  was  a  fine  man.  He  always  keep  de  bes' 
liquors  and  hy  wines  on  his  sideboa'd." 

When  Honore  had  been  gone  twenty-four  hours, 
and  Jules  was  still  idling  like  a  boy  undriven  by 
his  task-master,  leaving  the  boat  to  rock  under  bare 
poles  at  anchor  on  the  rise  and  fall  of  the  water, 
Clethera  went  into  their  empty  house.  It  contained 
three  rooms,  and  she  laid  violent  hands  on  male 
housekeeping.  The  service  was  almost  religious, 
like  preparing  linen  for  an  altar.  It  comforted  her 
unacknowledged  anguish,  which  increased  rather 
than  diminished,  the  unrest  of  which  she  resented 
with  all  her  stoic  Indian  nature. 

Nets,  sledge  -  harness,  and  Honore's  every -day 
clothes  hung  on  his  whitewashed  wall.  The  most 
touching  relic  of  any  man  is  the  hat  he  has  worn. 
Honore's  cap  crowned  the  post  of  his  bed  like  a 
wraith.  The  room  might  have  been  a  young  her 
mit's  cell  in  a  cave,  or  a  tunnel  in  the  evergreens, 
it  was  so  simple  and  bare  of  human  appointments. 
Clethera  stood  with  the  broom  in  one  hand,  and 
tipped  forward  a  piece  of  broken  looking-glass  on 
his  shaving  -  shelf .  A  new,  unforeseen  Clethera, 
whom  she  had  never  been  obliged  to  deal  with 

184 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORS 

before,  gave  her  a  desperate,  stony  stare  out  of  a 
haggard  face.  She  was  young,  her  skin  had  not 
a  line.  But  it  was  as  if  she  had  changed  places 
with  her  wrinkled  grandmother,  to  whom  the  ex 
pression  of  complacent  maidenhood  now  belonged. 

As  Clethera  propped  the  glass  again  in  place,  she 
heard  Jules  come  in.  She  resumed  her  sweeping 
with  resolute  strokes  on  the  bare  boards,  which 
would  explain  to  his  ear  the  necessity  of  her  pres 
ence.  He  appeared  at  the  door,  and  it  was  Honore ! 

It  was  Honore,  shamefaced  but  laughing,  back 
from  the  war  within  twenty-four  hours  !  Clethera 
heard  the  broom -handle  strike  the  floor  as  one 
hears  the  far-off  fall  of  a  spar  on  a  ship  in  harbor. 
She  put  her  palms  together,  without  flying  into  his 
arms  or  even  offering  to  shake  hands. 

"You  come  back?"  she  cried  out,  her  voice 
sharpened  by  joy. 

"  The  war  is  end',"  said  Honore.  "  Peace  is  de 
clare'  yesterday  !"  He  threw  his  bundle  down  and 
looked  fondly  around  the  rough  walls.  "All  de 
peop'  laugh  at  me  because  I  go  to  war  when  de  war 
is  end' !" 

"  They  laugh  because  de  war  is  end' !  I  laugh 
too?"  said  Clethera,  relaxing  to  sobs.  Tears  and 
cries  which  had  been  shut  up  a  day  and  a  night 
were  let  loose  with  French  abandon.  Honore 
opened  his  arms  to  comfort  her  in  the  old  man 
ner,  and  although  she  rushed  into  them,  strange 
embarrassment  went  with  her.  The  two  could  not 
look  at  each  other. 

185 


THE    MOTHERS    OF    HONORE 

"  It  is  de  'omesick,"  she  explained.  "  When  you 
go  to  war  it  make  me  'omesick." 

"  Me,  too,"  owned  Honore.  "I  never  know  what 
it  is  before.  I  not  mind  de  fighting,  but  I  am  glad 
de  war  is  end',  account  of  de  'omesick !" 

He  pushed  the  hair  from  her  wet  face.  The 
fate  of  temperament  and  the  deep  tides  of  existence 
had  them  in  merciless  sweep. 

"  Clethera,"  represented  Honore,  "  the  rillation 
is  not  mix'  bad  with  Jules  and  Melinda." 

Clethera  let  the  assertion  pass  unchallenged. 

"And  this  house,  it  pretty  good  house.  You 
like  it  well  as  de  hudder  ?" 

"It  have  no  loft,"  responded  Clethera,  faintly, 
"  but  de  chimney  not  smoke." 

"  We  not  want  de  'omesick  some  more,  Clethera 
— eh  ?  You  t'ink  de  fools  is  all  marry  yet  ?" 

Clethera  laughed  and  raised  her  head  from  his 
arm,  but  not  to  look  at  him  or  box  his  ear.  She 
looked  through  the  open  door  at  an  oblong  of  little 
world,  where  the  land  was  an  amethyst  strip  be 
twixt  lake  and  horizon.  Across  that  beloved  back 
ground  she  saw  the  future  pass :  hale,  long  years 
with  Honore ;  the  piled  up  wood  of  winter  fires ; 
her  own  home  ;  her  children — the  whole  scheme  of 
sweet  and  humble  living. 

"  You  t'ink,  after  all  de  folly  we  have  see'  in  de 
family,  Clethera,  you  can  go  de  lenk  —  to  get 
marry  ?" 

"  I  go  dat  lenk  for  you,  Honore — but  not  for  any 
hudder  man." 

186 


"HE   APPEARED  AT   THE   DOOR,   AND   IT   WAS  HONOKE " 


THE  BLUE  MAN 

THE  lake  was  like  a  meadow  full  of  running 
streams.  Far  off  indeed  it  seemed  frozen, 
with  countless  wind-paths  traversing  the  ice, 
so  level  and  motionless  was  the  surface  under  a 
gray  sky.  But  summer  rioted  in  verdure  over  the 
cliffs  to  the  very  beaches.  From  the  high  greenery 
of  the  island  could  be  heard  the  tink-tank  of  a  bell 
where  some  cow  sighed  amid  the  delicious  gloom. 

East  of  the  Giant's  Stairway  in  a  cove  are  two 
round  rocks  with  young  cedars  springing  from  them. 
It  is  easy  to  scramble  to  the  flat  top  of  the  first  one 
and  sit  in  open  ambush  undetected  by  passers. 
The  world's  majority  is  unobservant.  Children 
with  their  nurses,  lovers,  bicyclists  who  have  left 
their  wheels  behind,  excursionists  —  fortunately 
headed  towards  this  spot  in  their  one  available 
hour — an  endless  procession,  tramp  by  on  the  rough, 
wave-lapped  margin,  never  wearing  it  smooth. 

Amused  by  the  unconsciousness  of  the  review 
ed,  I  found  myself  unexpectedly  classed  with  the 
world's  majority.  For  on  the  east  round  rock,  a 
few  yards  from  my  seat  on  the  west  round  rock, 
behold  a  man  had  arranged  himself,  his  back  against 

187 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

the  cedars,  without  attracting  notice.  While  the 
gray  weather  lightened  and  wine-red  streaks  on  the 
lake  began  to  alternate  with  translucent  greens, 
and  I  was  watching  mauve  plumes  spring  from 
a  distant  steamer  before  her  whistles  could  be 
heard,  this  nimble  stranger  must  have  found  his 
own  amusement  in  the  blindness  of  people  with 
eyes. 

He  was  not  quite  a  stranger.  I  had  seen  him  the 
day  before ;  and  he  was  a  man  to  be  remembered 
on  account  of  a  peculiar  blueness  of  the  skin,  in 
which,  perhaps,  some  drug  or  chemical  had  left  an 
unearthly  haze  over  the  natural  flush  of  blood.  It 
might  have  appeared  the  effect  of  sky  lights  and 
cliff  shadows,  if  I  had  not  seen  the  same  blue  face 
distinctly  in  Madame  Clementine's  house.  He  was 
standing  in  the  middle  of  a  room  at  the  foot  of  the 
stairway  as  we  passed  his  open  door. 

So  unusual  a  personality  was  not  out  of  place  in 
a  transplanted  Parisian  tenement.  Madame  Clem 
entine  was  a  Parisian ;  and  her  house,  set  around 
three  sides  of  a  quadrangle  in  which  flowers  over 
flowed  their  beds,  Avas  a  bit  of  artisan  Paris.  The 
ground-floor  consisted  of  various  levels  joined  by 
steps  and  wide  -  jambed  doors.  The  chambers,  to 
which  a  box  staircase  led,  wanted  nothing  except 
canopies  over  the  beds. 

"  Alors  I  give  de  convenable  beds,"  said  Madame 
Clementine,  in  mixed  French  and  English,  as  she 
poked  her  mattresses.  "  Des  bons  lits  !  T'ree  dol 
lar  one  chambre,  four  dollar  one  chambre  — "  she 

188 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

suddenly  spread  her  hands  to  include  both — "  seven 
dollar  de  tout  ensemble!" 

It  was  delightful  to  go  with  any  friend  who 
might  be  forced  by  crowded  hotels  to  seek  rooms 
in  Madame  Clementine's  alley.  The  active,  tiny 
Frenchwoman,  who  wore  a  black  mob-cap  every 
where  except  to  mass,  had  reached  present  pros 
perity  through  past  tribulation.  Many  years  before 
she  had  followed  a  runaway  husband  across  the  sea. 
As  she  stepped  upon  the  dock  almost  destitute  the 
first  person  her  eyes  rested  on  was  her  husband 
standing  well  forward  in  the  crowd,  with  a  ham 
under  his  arm  which  he  was  carrying  home  to  his 
family.  He  saw  Clementine  and  dropped  the  ham 
to  run.  The  same  hour  he  took  his  new  wife  and 
disappeared  from  the  island.  The  doubly  deserted 
French-speaking  woman  found  employment  and 
friends;  and  by  her  thrift  was  now  in  the  way  of 
piling  up  what  she  considered  a  fortune. 

The  man  on  the  rock  near  me  was  no  doubt  one 
of  Madame  Clementine's  permanent  lodgers.  Tour 
ists  ranting  over  the  island  in  a  single  day  had  not 
his  repose.  He  met  my  discovering  start  with  a 
dim  smile  and  a  bend  of  his  head,  which  was  bare. 
His  features  were  large,  and  his  mouth  corners  had 
the  sweet,  strong  expression  of  a  noble  patience. 
What  first  impressed  me  seemed  to  be  his  blueness, 
and  the  blurredness  of  his  eyes  struggling  to  sight 
as  Bartimeus'  eyes  might  have  struggled  the  instant 
before  the  Lord  touched  them. 

Only  Asiatics  realize  the  power  of  odors.  The 
189 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

sense  of  smell  is  lightly  appreciated  in  the  Western 
world.  A  fragrance  might  be  compounded  which 
would  have  absolute  power  over  a  human  being. 
We  get  wafts  of  scent  to  which  something  in  us  ir 
resistibly  answers.  A  satisfying  sweetness,  fleeting 
as  last  year's  wild  flowers,  filled  the  whole  cove. 
I  thought  of  dead  Indian  pipes,  standing  erect  in 
pathetic  dignity,  the  delicate  scales  on  their  stems 
unfurled,  refusing  to  crumble  and  pass  away ;  the 
ghosts  of  Indians. 

The  blue  man  parted  his  large  lips  and  moved 
them  several  instants ;  then  his  voice  followed,  like 
the  tardy  note  of  a  distant  steamer  that  addresses 
the  eye  with  its  plume  of  steam  before  the  whistle 
is  heard.  I  felt  a  creepy  thrill  down  my  shoulders 
— that  sound  should  break  so  slowly  across  the  few 
yards  separating  us!  "  Are  you  also  waiting,  ma- 
dame?" 

I  felt  compelled  to  answer  him  as  I  would  have 
answered  no  other  person.  "  Yes ;  but  for  one  who 


never  comes." 


If  he  had  spoken  in  the  pure  French  of  the 
Touraine  country,  which  is  said  to  be  the  best  in 
France,  free  from  Parisianisms,  it  would  not 
have  surprised  me.  But  he  spoke  English,  with 
the  halting  though  clear  enunciation  of  a  Nova 
Scotian. 

"  You — you  must  have  patience.  I  have — have 
seen  you  only  seven  summers  on  the  island." 

"  You  have  seen  me  these  seven  years  past?  But 
I  never  met  you  before !" 

190 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

His  mouth  labored  voicelessly  before  he  declared, 
"  I  have  been  here  thirty-five  years." 

How  could  that  be  possible! — and  never  a  hint 
drifting  through  the  hotels  of  any  blue  man!  Yet 
the  intimate  life  of  old  inhabitants  is  not  paraded 
before  the  overrunning  army  of  a  season.  I  felt 
vaguely  flattered  that  this  exclusive  resident  had 
hitherto  noticed  me  and  condescended  at  last  to  re 
veal  himself. 

The  blue  man  had  been  here  thirty-five  years! 
He  knew  the  childish  joy  of  bruising  the  flesh  of 
orange -colored  toadstools  and  wading  amid  long 
pine-cones  which  strew  the  ground  like  fairy  corn 
cobs.  The  white  birches  were  dear  to  him,  and  he 
trembled  with  eagerness  at  the  first  pipe  sign,  or  at 
the  discovery  of  blue  gentians  where  the  eastern 
forest  stoops  to  the  strand.  And  he  knew  the  echo, 
shaking  like  gigantic  organ  music  from  one  side  of 
the  world  to  the  other. 

In  solitary  trysts  with  wilderness  depths  and 
caves  which  transient  sight-seers  know  nothing 
about  I  had  often  pleased  myself  thinking  the 
Mishi-ne-macki-naw-go  were  somewhere  around 
me.  If  twigs  crackled  or  a  sudden  awe  fell  cause 
lessly,  I  laughed — "  That  family  of  Indian  ghosts  is 
near.  I  wish  they  would  show  themselves !"  For 
if  they  ever  show  themselves,  they  bring  you  the 
gift  of  prophecy.  The  Chippewas  left  tobacco  and 
gunpowder  about  for  them.  My  offering  was  to 
cover  with  moss  the  picnic  papers,  tins,  and  broken 
bottles,  with  which  man  who  is  vile  defiles  every 
191 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

prospect.  Discovering  such  a  queer  islander  as  the 
blue  man  was  almost  equal  to  seeing  the  Mishi-ne- 
macki-naw-go. 

Voices  approached ;  and  I  watched  his  eyes  come 
into  his  face  as  he  leaned  forward  !  From  a  blurr 
of  lids  they  turned  to  beautiful  clear  balls  shot 
through  with  yearning.  Around  the  jut  of  rock 
appeared  a  bicycle  girl,  a  golf  girl,  and  a  youth  in 
knickers  having  his  stockings  laid  in  correct  folds 
below  the  knee.  They  passed  without  noticing  us. 
To  see  his  looks  dim  and  his  eagerness  relax  was 
too  painful.  I  watched  the  water  ridging  against 
the  horizon  like  goldstone  and  changing  swiftly  to 
the  blackest  of  greens.  Distance  folded  into  dis 
tance  so  that  the  remote  drew  near.  He  was  cer 
tainly  waiting  for  somebody,  but  it  could  not  be 
that  he  had  waited  thirty -five  years:  thirty-five 
winters,  whitening  the  ice-bound  island ;  thirt}T-five 
summers,  bringing  all  paradise  except  what  he 
waited  for. 

Just  as  I  glanced  at  the  blue  man  again  his  lips 
began  to  move,  and  the  peculiar  tingle  ran  down 
my  back,  though  I  felt  ashamed  of  it  in  his  sweet 
presence. 

"  Madame,  it  will — it  will  comfort  me  if  you  per 
mit  me  to  talk  to  you." 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,  sir,  to  hear  whatever  you 
have  to  tell." 

"  I  have — have  waited  here  thirty-five  years,  and 
in  all  that  time  I  have  not  spoken  to  any  one!" 

He  said  this  quite  candidly,  closing  his  lips  before 
192 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

his  voice  ceased  to  sound.  The  cedar  sapling 
against  which  his  head  rested  was  not  more  real 
than  the  sincerity  of  that  blue  man's  face.  Some 
hermit  soul,  who  had  proved  me  by  watching  me 
seven  years,  was  opening  himself,  and  I  felt  the 
tears  come  in  my  eyes. 

"Have  you  never  heard  of  me,  madame?" 

"You  forget,  sir,  that  I  do  not  even  know  your 
name." 

"My  name  is  probably  forgotten  on  the  island 
now.  I  stopped  here  between  steamers  during 
your  American  Civil  War.  A  passing  boat  put  in 
to  leave  a  young  girl  who  had  cholera.  I  saw  her 
hair  floating  out  of  the  litter." 

"Oh!"  I  exclaimed;  "that  is  an  island  story." 
The  blue  man  was  actually  presenting  credentials 
when  he  spoke  of  the  cholera  story.  "  She  was 
taken  care  of  on  the  island  until  she  recovered ;  and 
she  was  the  beautiful  daughter  of  a  wealthy  South 
ern  family  trying  to  get  home  from  her  convent  in 
France,  but  unable  to  run  the  blockade.  The  nun 
who  brought  her  died  on  shipboard  before  she 
landed  at  Montreal,  and  she  hoped  to  get  through 
the  lines  by  venturing  down  the  lakes.  Yes,  indeed ! 
Madame  Clementine  has  told  me  that  story." 

He  listened,  turning  his  head  attentively  and 
keeping  his  eyes  half  closed,  and  again  worked  his 
lips. 

"  Yes,  yes.  You  know  where  she  was  taken  care 
of?" 

"  It  was  at  Madame  Clementine's." 
N  193 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

"  I  myself  took  her  there." 
"  And  have  you  been  there  ever  since?" 
He  passed  over  the  trivial  question,  and  when  his 
voice  arrived  it  gushed  without  a  stammer. 

"  I  had  a  month  of  happiness.  I  have  had  thirty- 
five  years  of  waiting.  When  this  island  binds  you 
to  any  one  you  remain  bound.  Since  that  month 
with  her  I  can  do  nothing  but  wait  until  she  comes. 
I  lost  her,  I  don't  know  how.  We  were  in  this  cove 
together.  She  sat  on  this  rock  and  waited  while  I 
went  up  the  cliff  to  gather  ferns  for  her.  When  I 
returned  she  was  gone.  I  searched  the  island  for 
her.  It  kept  on  smiling  as  if  there  never  had  been 
such  a  person!  Something  happened  which  I  do 
not  understand,  for  she  did  not  want  to  leave  me. 
She  disappeared  as  if  the  earth  had  swallowed  her!" 
I  felt  a  rill  of  cold  down  my  back  like  the  jetting 
of  the  spring  that  spouted  from  its  ferny  tunnel 
farther  eastward.  Had  he  been  thirty-five  years 
on  the  island  without  ever  hearing  the  Old  Mission 
story  about  bones  found  in  the  cliff  above  us? 
Those  who  reached  them  by  venturing  down  a  pit 
as  deep  as  a  well,  uncovered  by  winter  storms,  de 
clared  they  were  the  remains  of  a  woman's  skeleton. 
I  never  saw  the  people  who  found  them.  It  was  an 
oft-repeated  Mission  story  which  had  come  down  to 
me.  An  Indian  girl  was  missed  from  the  Mission 
school  and  never  traced.  It  was  believed  she  met 
her  fate  in  this  rock  crevasse.  The  bones  were  blue, 
tinged  by  a  clay  in  which  they  had  lain.  I  tried  to 
remember  what  became  of  the  Southern  girl  who  was 

194 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

put  ashore,  her  hair  flying  from  a  litter.  Distinct 
as  her  tradition  remained,  it  ended  abruptly.  Even 
Madame  Clementine  forgot  when  and  how  she  left 
the  island  after  she  ceased  to  be  an  object  of  solic 
itude,  for  many  comers  and  goers  trample  the 
memory  as  well  as  the  island. 

Had  his  love  followed  him  up  the  green  tangled 
height  and  sunk  so  swiftly  to  her  death  that  it  was 
accomplished  without  noise  or  outcry?  To  this 
hour  only  a  few  inhabitants  locate  the  treacherous 
spot.  He  could  not  hide,  even  at  Madame  Clemen 
tine's,  from  all  the  talk  of  a  community.  This  un 
reasonable  tryst  of  thirty-five  years  raised  for  the 
first  time  doubts  of  his  sanity.  A  woman  might 
have  kept  such  a  tryst ;  but  a  man  consoles  himself. 

Passers  had  been  less  frequent  than  usual,  but 
again  there  was  a  crunch  of  approaching  feet. 
Again  he  leaned  forward,  and  the  sparks  in  his 
eyes  enlarged,  and  faded,  as  two  fat  women  wob 
bled  over  the  unsteady  stones,  exclaiming  and  bal 
ancing  themselves,  oblivious  to  the  blue  man  and 
me. 

"  It  is  four  o'clock,"  said  one,  pausing  to  look  at 
her  watch.  "  This  air  gives  one  such  an  appetite  I 
shall  never  be  able  to  wait  for  dinner." 

"  When  the  girls  come  in  from  golf  at  five  we 
will  have  some  tea,"  said  the  other. 

Eeturning  beach  gadders  passed  us.  Some  of 
them  noticed  me  with  a  start,  but  the  blue  man, 
wrapped  in  rigid  privacy,  with  his  head  sunk  on  his 
breast,  still  evaded  curious  eyes. 

195 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

I  began  to  see  that  his  clothes  were  by  no  means 
new,  though  they  suited  the  wearer  with  a  kind  of 
masculine  elegance.  The  blue  man's  head  had  so 
entirely  dominated  my  attention  that  the  cut  of  -his 
coat  and  his  pointed  collar  and  neckerchief  seemed 
to  appear  for  the  first  time. 

He  turned  his  face  to  me  once  more,  but  before 
our  brief  talk  could  be  resumed  another  woman 
came  around  the  jut  of  cliff,  so  light-footed  that  she 
did  not  make  as  much  noise  on  the  stones  as  the 
fat  women  could  still  be  heard  making  while  they 
floundered  eastward,  their  backs  towards  us.  The 
blue  man  had  impressed  me  as  being  of  middle  age. 
But  I  felt  mistaken;  he  changed  so  completely. 
Springing  from  the  rock  like  a  boy,  his  eyes  glori 
fied,  his  lips  quivering,  he  met  with  open  arms  the 
woman  who  had  come  around  the  jut  of  the  Giant's 
Stairway.  At  first  glance  I  thought  her  a  slim  old 
woman  with  the  kind  of  hair  which  looks  either 
blond  or  gray.  But  the  maturity  glided  into  sinuous 
girlishness,  jaelding  to  her  lover,  and  her  hair  shook 
loose,  floating  over  his  shoulder. 

I  dropped  my  eyes.  I  heard  a  pebble  stir  under 
their  feet.  The  tinkle  of  water  falling  down  its 
ferny  tunnel  could  be  guessed  at ;  and  the  beauty 
of  the  world  stabbed  one  with  such  keenness  that 
the  stab  brought  tears. 

We  have  all  had  our  dreams  of  flying ;  or  float 
ing  high  or  low,  lying  extended  on  the  air  at  will. 
By  what  process  of  association  I  do  not  know,  the 
perfect  naturalness  and  satisfaction  of  flying  re- 

196 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

curred  to  me.  I  was  cleansed  from  all  doubt  of  ul 
timate  good.  The  meeting  of  the  blue  man  and  the 
woman  with  floating  hair  seemed  to  be  what  the 
island  had  awaited  for  thirty-five  years. 

The  miracle  of  impossible  happiness  had  been 
worked  for  him.  It  confused  me  like  a  dazzle  of 
fireworks.  I  turned  my  back  and  bowed  my  head, 
waiting  for  him  to  speak  again  or  to  leave  me  out, 
as  he  saw  fit. 

Extreme  joy  may  be  very  silent  in  those  who 
have  waited  long,  for  I  did  not  hear  a  cry  or  a 
spoken  word.  Presently  I  dared  to  look,  and  was 
not  surprised  to  find  myself  alone.  The  evergreen- 
clothed  amphitheatre  behind  had  many  paths  which 
would  instantlv  hide  climbers  from  view.  The  blue 

•I 

man  and  the  woman  with  floating  hair  knew  these 
heights  well.  I  thought  of  the  pitfall,  and  sat 
watching  with  back-tilted  head,  anxious  to  warn 
them  if  they  stirred  foliage  near  where  that  fatal 
trap  was  said  to  lurk.  But  the  steep  forest  gave 
no  sign  or  sound  from  its  mossy  depths. 

I  sat  still  a  long  time  in  a  trance  of  the  senses, 
like  that  which  follows  a  drama  whose  spell  you 
would  not  break.  Masts  and  cross-trees  of  ships 
were  banded  by  ribbons  of  smoke  blowing  back 
from  the  steamers  which  towed  them  in  lines  up  or 
down  the  straits. 

Towards  sunset  there  was  a  faint  blush  above  the 
steel-blue  waters,  which  at  their  edge  reflected  the 
blush.  Then  mist  closed  in.  The  sky  became 
ribbed  with  horizontal  bars,  so  that  the  earth  was 

197 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

pent  like  a  heart  within  the  hollow  of  some  vast 
skeleton. 

I  was  about  to  climb  down  from  my  rock  when 
two  young  men  passed  by,  the  first  strollers  I  had 
noticed  since  the  blue  man's  exit.  They  rapped 
stones  out  of  the  way  with  their  canes,  and  pushed 
the  caps  back  from  their  youthful  faces,  talking 
rapidly  in  excitement. 

"  When  did  it  happen  3" 

"  About  four  o'clock.  You  were  off  at  the  golf 
links." 

"Was  she  killed  instantly?" 

"  I  think  so.  I  think  she  never  knew  what  hurt 
her  after  seeing  the  horses  plunge  and  the  carriage 
go  over.  I  was  walking  my  wheel  down -hill  just 
behind  and  I  didn't  hear  her  scream.  The  driver 
said  he  lost  the  brake ;  and  he's  a  pretty  spectacle 
now,  for  he  landed  on  his  head.  It  was  that  beau 
tiful  old  lady  with  the  fly-away  hair  that  we  saw 
arrive  from  this  morning's  boat  while  we  were  sit 
ting  out  smoking,  you  remember." 

"Not  that  one!" 

"  That  was  the  woman.  Had  a  black  maid  with 
her.  She's  a  Southerner.  I  looked  on  the  regis 
ter." 

The  other  young  fellow  whistled. 

"  I'm  glad  I  was  at  the  links  and  didn't  see  it. 
She  was  a  stunning  woman." 

Dusk  stalked  grimly  down  from  eastern  heights 
and  blurred  the  water  earlier  than  on  rose-colored 
evenings,  making  the  home-returning  walker  shiver 

198 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

through  evergreen  glooms  along  shore.  The  lights 
of  the  sleepy  Old  Mission  had  never  seemed  so  pleas 
ant,  though  the  house  was  full  of  talk  about  that 
day's  accident  at  the  other  side  of  the  island. 

I  slipped  out  before  the  early  boat  left  next  morn 
ing,  driven  by  undefined  anxieties  towards  Madame 
Clementine's  alley.  There  is  a  childish  credulity 
which  clings  to  imaginative  people  through  life.  I 
had  accepted  the  blue  man  and  the  woman  with 
floating  hair  in  the  way  which  they  chose  to  present 
themselves.  But  I  began  to  feel  like  one  who  sees 
a  distinctly  focused  picture  shimmering  to  a  dissolv 
ing  view.  The  intrusion  of  an  accident  to  a 
stranger  at  another  hotel  continued  this  morning, 
for  as  I  took  the  long  way  around  the  bay  before 
turning  back  to  Clementine's  alley  I  met  the  open 
island  hearse,  looking  like  a  relic  of  provincial 
France,  and  in  it  was  a  coffin,  and  behind  it  moved 
a  carriage  in  which  a  black  maid  sat  weeping. 

Madame  Clementine  came  out  to  her  palings  and 
picked  some  of  her  nasturtiums  for  me.  In  her 
mixed  language  she  talked  excitedly  about  the  ac 
cident;  nothing  equals  the  islander's  zest  for  sensa 
tion  after  his  winter  trance  when  the  summer  world 
comes  to  him. 

"  When  I  heard  it,"  I  confessed,  "I  thought  of  the 
friend  of  your  blue  gentleman.  The  description  was 
so  like  her.  But  I  saw  her  myself  on  the  beach  by 
the  Giant's  Stairway  after  four  o'clock  yesterday." 

Madame  Clementine  contracted  her  short  face  in 
puzzled  wrinkles. 

199 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

"  There  is  one  gentleman  of  red  head,"  she  re 
sponded,  "  but  none  of  blue — pas  du  tout." 

"  You  must  know  whom  I  mean — the  lodger  who 
has  been  with  you  thirty-five  years." 

She  looked  at  me  as  at  one  who  has  either  been 
tricked  or  is  attempting  trickery. 

"  I  don't  know  his  name  —  but  you  certainly 
understand !  The  man  I  saw  in  that  room  at 
the  foot  of  the  stairs  when  you  were  showing 
my  friend  and  me  the  chambers  day  before  yester- 
day." 

"  There  was  nobody.  De  room  at  de  foot  of  de 
stair  is  empty  all  season.  Tout  de  suite  I  put  in 
some  young  lady  that  arrive  this  night." 

"  Madame  Clementine,  I  saw  a  man  with  a  blue 
skin  on  the  beach  yesterday — "  I  stopped.  He 
had  not  told  me  he  lodged  with  her.  That  was  my 
own  deduction.  "  I  saw  him  the  day  before  in  this 
house.  Don't  you  know  any  such  person  ?  He  has 
been  on  the  island  since  that  young  lady  was 
brought  to  your  house  with  the  cholera  so  long 
ago.  He  brought  her  to  you." 

A  flicker  of  recollection  appeared  on  Clementine's 
face. 

"  That  man  is  gone,  madame ;  it  is  many  years. 
And  he  was  not  blue  at  all.  He  was  English  Jersey 
man,  of  Halifax." 

"  Did  you  never  hear  of  any  blue  man  on  the  isl 
and,  Clementine?" 

"I  hear  of  blue  bones  found  beyond  Point  de 
Mission." 

200 


THE    BLUE    MAN 

"  But  that  skeleton  found  in  the  hole  near  the 
Giant's  Stairway  was  a  woman's  skeleton." 

"  Me  loes !"  exclaimed  Madame  Clementine,  mis 
calling  her  English  as  she  always  did  in  excitement. 
"Me  handle  de  big  bones,  moi-meme!  Me  loes 
what  de  doctor  who  found  him  say  !" 

"  I  was  told  it  was  an  Indian  girl." 

"  You  have  hear  lies,  madame.  Me  loes  there 
was  a  blue  man  found  beyond  Point  de  Mission." 

"  But  who  was  it  that  I  saw  in  your  house?" 

"He  is  not  in  my  house!"  declared  Madame 
Clementine.  "  No  blue  man  is  ever  in  my  house !" 
She  crossed  herself. 

There  is  a  sensation  like  having  a  slide  pulled 
from  one's  head ;  the  shock  passes  in  the  fraction 
of  a  second.  Sunshine,  and  rioting  nasturtiums,  the 
whole  natural  world,  including  Clementine's  puzzled 
brown  face,  were  no  more  distinct  to-day  than  the 
blue  man  and  the  woman  with  floating  hair  had 
been  yesterday. 

I  had  seen  a  man  who  shot  down  to  instant  death 
in  the  pit  under  the  Giant's  Stairway  thirty-five 
years  ago.  I  had  seen  a  woman,  who,  perhaps, 
once  thought  herself  intentionally  and  strangely  de 
serted,  seek  and  meet  him  after  she  had  been  killed 
at  four  o'clock ! 

This  experience,  set  down  in  my  note-book  and 
repeated  to  no  one,  remains  associated  with  the  Old 
"World  scent  of  ginger.  For  I  remember  hearing 
Clementine  say  through  a  buzzing,  "You  come  in, 
madame — you  must  have  de  hot  wine  and  jah jah !" 

201 


THE   INDIAN   ON    THE   TRAIL 


M 


AUBICE  BARRETT  sat  waiting  in  the 
old  lime-kiln  built  by  the  British  in  the  war 
of  1812 — a  white  ruin  like  much-scattered 
marble,  which  stands  bovvered  in  trees  on  a  high 
part  of  the  island.  He  had,  to  the  amusement  of 
the  commissioner,  hired  this  place  for  a  summer 
study,  and  paid  a  carpenter  to  put  a  temporary 
roof  over  it,  with  skylight,  and  to  make  a  door 
which  could  be  fastened.  Here  on  the  uneven  floor 
of  stone  were  set  his  desk,  his  chair,  and  a  bench 
on  which  he  could  stretch  himself  to  think  when 
undertaking  to  make  up  arrears  in  literary  work. 
But  the  days  were  becoming  nothing  but  trysts 
with  her  for  whom  he  waited. 

First  came  the  heavenly  morning  walk  and  the 
opening  of  his  study,  then  the  short  half-hour  of 
labor,  which  ravelled  off  to  delicious  suspense.  He 
caught  through  trees  the  hint  of  a  shirt-waist  which 
might  be  any  girl's,  then  the  long  exquisite  outline 
which  could  be  nobody's  in  the  world  but  hers,  her 
face  under  its  sailor  hat,  the  blown  blond  hair, 
the  blue  eyes.  Then  her  little  hands  met  his  out- 

202 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE   TRAIL 

stretched  hands  at  the  door,  and  her  whole  violet- 
breathing  self  yielded  to  his  arms. 

They  sat  down  on  the  bench,  still  in  awe  of  each 
other  and  of  the  swift  miracle  of  their  love  and 
engagement.  Maurice  had  passed  his  fiftieth  year, 
so  clean  from  dissipation,  so  full  of  vitality  and  the 
beauty  of  a  long  race  of  strong  men,  that  he  did 
not  look  forty,  and  in  all  out-door  activities  rivalled 
the  boys  in  their  early  twenties.  He  was  an  ex 
pert  mountain-climber  and  explorer  of  regions 
from  which  he  brought  his  own  literary  mate 
rial;  inured  to  fatigue,  patient  in  hardship,  and  re 
sourceful  in  danger.  Money  and  reputation  and 
the  power  which  attends  them  he  had  wrung 
from  fate  as  his  right,  and  felt  himself  fit  to 
match  with  the  best  blood  in  the  world  —  except 
hers. 

Yet  she  was  only  his  social  equal,  and  had  grown 
up  next  door,  while  his  unsatisfied  nature  searched 
the  universe  for  its  mate — a  wild  sweetbrier-rose  of 
a  child,  pink  and  golden,  breathing  a  daring,  fra 
grant  personality.  He  hearkened  back  to  some 
recognition  of  her  charm  from  the  day  she  ran  out 
bareheaded  and  slim-legged  on  her  father's  lawn 
and  turned  on  the  hose  for  her  play.  Yet  he  barely 
missed  her  when  she  went  to  an  Eastern  school, 
and  only  thrilled  vaguely  when  she  came  back  like 
one  of  Gibson's  pictures,  carrying  herself  with  state- 
liness.  There  was  something  in  her  blue  eyes  not 
to  be  found  in  any  other  blue  eyes.  He  was  housed 
with  her  family  in  the  same  hotel  at  the  island  be- 

203 


THE    INDIAN    ON    TEE    TRAIL 

fore  he  completely  understood  the  magnitude  of 
what  had  befallen  him. 

"I  am  awfully  set  up  because  you  have  chosen 
me,"  she  admitted  at  first.  He  liked  to  have  her 
proud  as  of  a  conquest,  and  he  was  conscious  of  that 
general  favor  which  stamped  him  a  good  match, 
even  for  a  girl  half  his  age. 

"How  much  have  you  done  this  morning?"  she 
inquired,  looking  at  his  desk. 

"  Enough  to  tide  over  the  time  until  you  came. 
Determination  and  execution  are  not  one  with  me 
now."  Her  hands  were  cold,  and  he  warmed  them 
against  his  face. 

"  It  was  during  your  married  life  that  determi 
nation  and  execution  were  one  ?" 

"Decidedly.  For  that  was  my  plodding  age. 
Sometimes  when  I  am  tingling  with  impatience 
here  I  look  back  in  wonder  on  the  dogged  drive  of 
those  days.  Work  is  an  unhappy  man's  best  friend. 
I  have  no  concealments  from  you,  Lily.  You  know 
I  never  loved  my  wife — not  this  way — though  I 
made  her  happy;  I  did  my  duty.  She  told  me 
when  she  died  that  I  had  made  her  happy.  People 
cannot  help  their  limitations." 

"  Do  you  love  me  ?"  she  asked,  her  lips  close  to 
his  ear. 

"  I  am  you !  Your  blood  flows  through  my 
veins.  I  feel  you  rush  through  me.  You  don't 
know  what  it  is  to  love  like  that,  do  you  ?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  When  you  are  out  of  my  sight  I  do  not  live ;  I 
204 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

simply  wait.  What  is  the  weird  power  in  you  that 
creates  such  gigantic  passion  '?" 

"  The  power  is  all  in  your  imagination.  You 
simply  don't  know  me.  You  think  I  am  a  prize. 
Why,  I — flirt — and  I've — kissed  men  !" 

He  laughed.  "  You  would  be  a  queer  girl,  at 
your  age,  if  you  hadn't  —  kissed  men  —  a  little. 
Whatever  your  terrible  past  has  been,  it  has  made 
you  the  infinite  darling  that  you  are  !" 

She  moved  her  eyes  to  watch  the  leaves  twin 
kling  in  front  of  the  lime-kiln. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

"  '  I  must  go ' !"  he  mocked.  "  You  are  no  sooner 
here  than — '  I  must  go ' !" 

"  I  can't  be  with  you  all  the  time.  You  don't 
care  for  appearances,  so  I  have  to." 

"  Appearances  are  nothing.  This  is  the  only  real 
thing  in  the  universe." 

"But  I  really  must  go."  She  lifted  her  wilful 
chin  and  sat  still.  They  stared  at  each  other  in  the 
silence  of  lovers.  Though  the  girl's  face  was  with 
out  a  line,  she  was  more  skilled  in  the  play  of  love 
than  he. 

"  Indeed  I  must  go.  Your  eyes  are  half  shut, 
like  a  gentian." 

"  When  you  are  living  intensely  you  don't  look 
at  the  world  through  wide-open  eyes,"  said  Mau 
rice.  "  I  never  let  myself  go  before.  Repression 
has  been  the  law  of  my  life.  Think  of  it !  In  a 
long  life-time  I  have  loved  but  two  persons — the 
woman  I  told  you  of,  and  you.  Twenty  years  ago 

205 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

I  found  out  what  life  meant.  For  the  first  time,  I 
knew !  But  I  was  already  married.  I  took  that 
beautiful  love  by  the  throat  and  choked  it  down. 
Afterwards,  when  I  was  free,  the  woman  I  first 
loved  was  married.  How  long  I  have  had  to  wait 
for  you  to  bloom,  lotos  flower !  This  is  living !  All 
the  other  years  were  preparation." 

"  Do  you  never  see  her  ?"  inquired  the  girl. 

"  Who  ?     That  first  one  ?     I  have  avoided  her." 

«  She  loved  you?" 

"  With  the  blameless  passion  that  we  both  at 
first  thought  was  the  most  perfect  friendship." 

"  Wouldn't  you  marry  her  now  if  she  were  free  ?" 

"No.  It  is  ended.  We  have  grown  apart  in 
renunciation  for  twenty  years.  I  am  not  one  that 
changes  easily,  you  see.  You  have  taken  what  I 
could  not  withhold  from  you,  and  it  is  yours.  I 
am  in  your  power." 

They  heard  a  great  steamer  blowing  upon  the 
strait.  Its  voice  reverberated  through  the  woods. 
The  girl's  beautiful  face  was  full  of  a  tender  wist- 
fulness,  half  maternal.  Neither  jealousy  nor  pique 
marred  its  exquisite  sympathy.  It  was  such  an  ex 
pression  as  an  untamed  wood-nymph  might  have 
worn,  contemplating  the  life  of  man. 

"  Don't  be  sad,"  she  breathed. 

Vague  terror  shot  through  Maurice's  gaze. 

"  That  is  a  strange  thing  for  you  to  say  to  me, 
Lily.  Is  it  all  you  can  say— when  I  love  you  so  ?" 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  other  woman.     Did  she 

suffer  ?" 

206 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

"  At  any  rate,  she  has  the  whole  world  now — 
beauty,  talent,  wealth,  social  prestige.  She  is  one 
of  the  most  successful  women  in  this  country." 

"  Do  I  know  her  name  ?" 

"  Quite  well.  She  has  been  a  person  of  conse 
quence  since  you  were  a  child." 

"I  couldn't  capture  the  whole  world,"  mused 
Lily.  Maurice  kissed  her  small  fingers. 

"  Some  one  else  will  put  it  in  your  lap,  to  keep 
or  throw  away  as  you  choose." 

The  hurried  tink-tank  of  an  approaching  cow-bell 
suggested  passers.  Then  a  whir  of  wheels  could  be 
heard  through  tangled  wilderness.  The  girl  met 
his  lips  with  a  lingering  which  trembled  through 
all  his  body,  and  withdrew  herself. 

"Now  I  am  going.  Are  you  coming  down  the 
trail  with  me  ?" 

Maurice  shut  the  lime-kiln  door,  and  crossed  with 
her  a  grassy  avenue  to  find  among  birches  the  rav 
elled  ends  of  a  path  called  the  White  Islander's 
Trail.  You  may  know  it  first  by  a  triangle  of  roots 
at  the  foot  of  an  oak.  Thence  a  thread,  barely 
visible  to  expert  eyes,  winds  to  some  mossy  dead 
pines  and  crosses  a  rotten  log.  There  it  becomes 
a  trail  cleaving  the  heights,  and  plunging  boldly 
up  and  down  evergreen  glooms  to  a  road  parallel 
with  the  cliff.  Once,  when  the  island  was  freshly 
drenched  in  rain,  Lily  breathed  deeply,  gazing  down 
the  tunnel  floored  with  rock  and  pine-needles,  a  flask 
of  incense.  "  It  is  like  the  violins  1" 

In  that  seclusion  of  heaven  Maurice  could  draw 
207 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

her  slim  shape  to  him,  for  the  way  is  so  narrow- 
that  two  are  obliged  to  walk  close.  They  parted 
near  the  wider  entrance,  where  a  stump  reared  it 
self  against  the  open  sky,  bearing  a  stick  like  a  bow, 
and  having  the  appearance  of  a  crouching  figure. 

"There  is  the  Indian  on  the  trail,"  said  Lily. 
"  You  must  go  back  now." 

"  He  looks  so  formidable,"  said  Maurice ;  "  espe 
cially  in  twilight,  and,  except  at  noon,  it  is  alwaj^s 
twilight  here.  But  when  you  reach  him  he  is  noth 
ing  but  a  stump." 

"  He  is  more  than  a  stump,"  she  insisted.  "  He 
is  a  real  Indian,  and  some  day  will  get  up  and  take 
a  scalp  !  It  gives  me  a  shiver  every  time  I  come  in 
sight  of  him  crouched  on  the  trail !" 

"Do  you  know,"  complained  her  lover,  "  that  you 
haven't  told  me  once  to-day  ?" 

«  Well— I  do." 

"How  much?" 

"  Oh— a  little  !" 

"A  little  will  not  do!" 

"  Then— a  great  deal." 

"I  want  all— all!" 

Her  eyes  wandered  towards  the  Indian  on  the 
trail,  and  the  bow  of  her  mouth  was  bent  in  a  tan 
talizing  curve. 

"  I  have  told  you  I  love  you.  Why  doesn't  that 
satisfy  you  ?" 

"  It  isn't  enough  !" 

"  Perhaps  I  can't  satisfy  you.     I  love  you  all  I 


208 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

"All  you  can?" 

"Yes.  Maybe  I  can't  love  you  as  much  as  you 
want  me  to.  I  am  shallow !" 

"  For  God's  sake,  don't  say  you  are  shallow ! 
There  is  deep  under  deep  in  you  !  I  couldn't  have 
staked  my  life  on  you,  I  couldn't  have  loved  you, 
if  there  hadn't  been !  Say  I  have  only  touched  the 
surface  yet,  but  don't  say  you  are  shallow !" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  There  isn't  enough  of  me.  Do  you  know,"  she 
exclaimed,  whimsically,  "  that's  the  Indian  on  the 
trail !  You'll  never  feel  quite  sure  of  me,  will  you?" 

Maurice's  lips  moved.     "  You  are  my  own !" 

She  kept  him  at  bay  with  her  eyes,  though  they 
filled  slowly  with  tears. 

"  I  am  a  child  of  the  devil !"  exclaimed  Lily,  with 
vehemence.  "  I  give  people  trouble  and  make  them 
suffer!" 

"  She  classes  me  with '  people ' !"  Maurice  thought. 
He  said,  "  Have  I  ever  blamed  you  for  anything  ?" 

"  No." 

"  Then  don't  blame  yourself.  I  will  simply  take 
what  you  can  give  me.  That  is  all  I  could  take. 
Forgive  me  for  loving  you  too  much.  I  will  try  to 
love  you  less." 

"  No,"  the  girl  demurred.  "I  don't  want  you  to 
do  that." 

"I  am  very  unreasonable,"  he  said,  humbly. 
"But  the  rest  of  the  world  is  a  shadow.  You  are 
my  one  reality.  There  is  nothing  in  the  universe 
but  you." 

o  209 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

She  brushed  her  eyes  fiercely.  "  I  mustn't  cry. 
I'll  have  to  explain  it  if  I  do,  and  the  lids  will  be 
red  all  day." 

The  man  felt  internally  seared,  as  by  burning 
lava,  with  the  conviction  that  he  had  staked  his  all 
late  in  life  on  what  could  never  be  really  his.  She 
would  diffuse  herself  through  many.  He  was  con 
centrated  in  her.  His  passion  had  its  lips  burned 
shut. 

"  I  am  Providence's  favorite  bag-holder,"  was  his 
bitter  thought.  "  The  game  is  never  for  me." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Lily. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Maurice. 

"Are  you  coming  into  the  casino  to-night?" 

"  If  you  will  be  there." 

"  I  have  promised  a  lot  of  dances.  Good-bye.  Go 
back  and  work." 

"  Yes,  I  must  work,"  said  Maurice. 

She  gave  him  a  defiant,  radiant  smile,  and  ran 
towards  the  Indian  on  the  trail.  He  turned  in  the 
opposite  direction,  and  tramped  the  woods  until 
nightfall. 

At  first  he  mocked  himself.  "  Oh  yes,  she  loves 
me !  I'm  glad,  at  any  rate,  that  she  loves  me ! 
There  will  be  enough  to  moisten  my  lips  with ;  and 
if  I  thirst  for  an  ocean  that  is  not  her  fault." 

"Why  had  a  woman  been  made  who  could  inspire 
such  passion  without  returning  it?  He  reminded 
himself  that  she  was  of  a  later,  a  gayer,  lighter,  less 
strenuous  generation  than  his  own.  Thousands  of 
men  had  waded  blood  for  a  principle  and  a  lost 

210 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

cause  in  his  day.  In  hers  the  gigantic  republic 
stood  up  a  menace  to  nations.  The  struggle  for 
existence  was  over  before  she  was  born.  Yet  wom 
en  seemed  more  in  earnest  now  than  ever  before. 
He  said  to  himself,  "  I  have  always  picked  out 
natures  as  fatal  to  me  as  a  death-warrant,  and  fast 
ened  my  life  to  them." 

The  thought  stabbed  him  that  perhaps  his  wife, 
whom  he  had  believed  satisfied,  had  carried  such 
hopeless  anguish  as  he  now  carried.  Tardy  remorse 
for  what  he  could  not  help  gave  him  the  feeling  of 
a  murderer.  And  since  he  knew  himself  how  little 
may  be  given  under  the  bond  of  marriage,  he  could 
not  look  forward  and  say,  "  My  love  will  yet  be 
mine!" 

He  would,  indeed,  have  society  on  his  side;  and 
children — he  drew  his  breath  hard  at  that.  Her 
ways  with  children  were  divine.  He  had  often 
watched  her  instinctive  mothering  of,  and  drawing 
them  around  her.  And  it  should  be  much  to  him 
that  he  might  look  at  and  touch  her.  There  was 
life  in  her  mere  presence. 

He  felt  the  curse  of  the  artistic  temperament, 
which  creates  in  man  the  exquisite  sensitiveness  of 
woman. 

Taking  the  longest  and  hardest  path  home  around 
the  eastern  beach,  Maurice  turned  once  on  impulse, 
parted  a  screen  of  birches,  and  stepped  into  an 
amphitheatre  of  the  cliff,  moss-clothed  and  cedar- 
walled.  It  sloped  downward  in  three  terraces.  A 
balcony  or  high  parapet  of  stone  hung  on  one  side, 

211 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

i 

a  rock  low  and  broad  stood  in  the  centre,  and  an 

unmistakable  chair  of  rock,  cushioned  with  vividly 
green-branched  moss,  waited  an  occupant.  Maurice 
sat  down,  wondering  if  any  other  human  being, 
perplexed  and  tortured,  had  ever  domiciled  there 
for  a  brief  time.  Slim  alder-trees  and  maples  were 
clasped  in  moss  to  their  waists.  The  spacious  open 
was  darkened  by  dense  shade  overhead.  Bois  Blanc 
was  plainly  in  view  from  the  beach.  But  the  eastern 
islands  stretched  a  line  of  foliage  in  growing  dusk. 
Maurice  felt  the  cooling  benediction  of  the  place. 
This  world  is  such  a  good  world  to  be  happy  in,  if 
you  have  the  happiness. 

When  the  light  faded  he  went  on,  climbing  low 
headlands  which  jutted  into  the  water,  and  sliding 
down  on  the  other  side ;  so  that  he  reached  the  hotel 
physically  exhausted,  and  had  his  dinner  sent  to  his 
room.  But  a  vitality  constantly  renewing  itself 
swept  away  every  trace  of  his  hard  day  when  he 
entered  the  gayly  lighted  casino. 

He  no  longer  danced,  not  because  dancing  ceased 
to  delight  him,  but  because  the  serious  business  of 
life  had  left  no  room  for  it.  He  walked  along  the 
waxed  floor,  avoiding  the  circling  procession  of 
waltzers,  and  bowing  to  a  bank  of  pretty  faces,  but 
thinking  his  own  thought,  in  growing  bitterness: 
"  They  who  live  blameless  lives  are  the  fools  of  fate. 
If  I  had  it  to  do  over  again,  I  would  take  what  I 
wanted  in  spite  of  everything,  and  let  the  conse 
quences  fall  where  they  would!"  Looking  up,  he 
met  in  the  eyes  the  woman  of  his  early  love. 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

She  was  holding  court,  for  a  person  of  such  conse 
quence  became  the  centre  of  the  caravansary  from 
the  instant  of  her  arrival;  and  she  gave  him  her 
hand  with  the  conventional  frankness  and  self-com 
mand  that  set  her  apart  from  the  weak.  Once  more 
he  knew  she  was  a  woman  to  be  worshipped,  whose 
presence  rebuked  the  baseness  he  had  just  thought. 

"Perhaps  it  was  she  who  kept  me  from  being 
worse,"  Maurice  recognized  in  a  flash;  "not  I  my 
self!" 

"Why,  Mrs.  Carstang,  I  didn't  know  you  were 
here!''  he  spoke,  with  warmth  around  the  heart. 

"  We  came  at  noon." 

"And  I  was  in  the  woods  all  day."  Maurice 
greeted  the  red-cheeked,  elderty  Mr.  Carstang, 
whom,  according  to  half  the  world,  his  wife  doted 
upon,  and  according  to  the  other  half,  she  simply 
endured.  At  any  rate,  he  looked  pleased  with  his 
lot. 

While  Maurice  stood  talking  with  Mrs.  Carstang, 
the  new  grief  and  the  old  strangely  neutralized  each 
other.  It  was  as  if  they  met  and  grappled,  and  he 
had  numb  peace.  The  woman  of  his  first  love  made 
him  proud  of  that  early  bond.  She  was  more  than 
she  had  been  then.  But  Lily  moved  past  him  with 
a  smile.  Her  dancing  was  visible  music.  It  had 
a  penetrating  grace — hers,  and  no  other  person's  in 
the  world.  The  floating  of  a  slim  nymph  down  a 
forest  avenue,  now  separating  from  her  partner,  and 
now  joining  him  at  caprice,  it  rushed  through  Mau 
rice  like  some  recollection  of  the  Golden  Age,  when 

213 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

he  had  stood  imprisoned  in  a  tree.  There  was  little 
opportunity  to  do  anything  but  watch  her,  for  she 
was  more  in  demand  than  any  other  girl  in  the 
casino.  Hop  nights  were  her  unconscious  ovations. 
He  took  a  kind  of  aching  delight  in  her  dancing. 
For  while  it  gratified  an  artist  to  the  core,  it  sepa 
rated  her  from  her  lover  and  gave  her  to  other 
men. 

Next  morning  he  waited  for  her  in  the  study 
with  a  restlessness  which  would  not  let  him  sit  still. 
More  than  once  he  went  as  far  as  the  oak-tree  to 
watch  for  a  glimmer.  But  when  Lily  finally  ap 
peared  at  the  door  he  pretended  to  be  very  busy 
with  papers  on  his  desk,  and  looked  up,  saying, 
"Oh!" 

The  morning  was  chill,  and  she  seemed  a  fair 
Eussian  in  fur-edged  cloth  as  she  put  her  cold  fin 
gers  teasingly  against  his  neck. 

"Are  you  working  hard?" 

"  Trying  to.     I  am  behind." 

"  But  if  there  is  a  good  wind  this  afternoon  you 
are  not  to  forget  the  Carstangs'  sail.  They  will  be 
here  only  a  day  or  two,  and  you  mustn't  neglect 
them.  Mrs.  Carstang  told  me  if  I  saw  you  first  to 
invite  you." 

Maurice  met  the  girl's  smiling  eyes,  and  the  ice 
of  her  hand  went  through  him. 

"  Isn't  Mrs.  Carstang  lovely!  As  soon  as  I  saw 
you  come  in  last  night,  I  knew  she  was — the  other 
woman." 

"  You  didn't  look  at  me." 
214 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

"  I  can  see  with  ray  eyelashes.  Do  you  know,  I 
have  often  thought  I  should  love  her  if  I  were  a 
man!" 

There  was  not  a  trace  of  jealousy  in  Lily's  gentle 
and  perfect  manner. 

"  You  resemble  her,"  said  Maurice.  "  You  have 
the  blond  head,  and  the  same  features — only  a  little 
more  delicate." 

"  I  have  been  in  her  parlor  all  morning,"  said 
Lily.  "  We  talked  about  you.  I  am  certain,  Mau 
rice,  Mrs.  Carstang  is  in  her  heart  still  faithful  to 
you." 

That  she  should  thrust  the  old  love  on  him  as  a 
kind  of  solace  seemed  the  cruelest  of  all.  There 
was  no  cognizance  of  anything  except  this  .one 
maddening  girl.  She  absorbed  him.  She  wrung 
the  strength  of  his  manhood  from  him  as  tribute, 
such  tribute  as  ever}7 body  paid  her,  even  Mrs.  Car 
stang.  He  sat  like  a  rock,  tranced  by  the  strong 
control  which  he  kept  over  himself. 

"I  must  go,"  said  Lily.  She  had  not  sat  down 
at  all.  Maurice  shuffled  his  papers. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  spoke. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  answered. 

She  did  not  ask,  "  Are  you  coming  down  the  trail 
with  me?"  but  ebbed  softly  away,  the  swish  of  her 
silken  petticoat  subsiding  on  the  grassy  avenue. 

Her  lover  stretched  his  arms  across  the  desk  and 
sobbed  upon  them  with  heart-broken  gasps. 

"It  is  killing  me!  It  is  killing  me!  And  there 
is  no  escape.  If  I  took  my  life  my  disembodied 

215 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

ghost  would  follow  her,  less  able  to  make  itself  felt 
than  now!  I  cannot  live  without  her,  and  she  is 
not  for  me — not  for  me!" 

He  cursed  the  necessity  which  drove  him  out  with 
the  sailing  party,  and  the  prodigal  waste  of  life  on 
neutral,  trivial  doings  which  cannot  be  called  living. 
He  could  see  Lily  with  every  pore  of  his  body,  and 
grew  faint  keeping  down  a  wild  beast  in  him  which 
desired  to  toss  overboard  the  men  who  crowded 
around  her.  She  was  more  deliciously  droll  than 
any  comedienne,  full  of  music  and  wit,  the  kind  of 
spirit  that  rises  Hood-tide  with  occasion.  He  was 
himself  hilarious  also  during  this  experience  of  sail 
ing  with  two  queens  surrounded  by  courtiers  and 
playing  the  deep  game  of  fascination,  as  if  men 
were  created  for  the  amusement  of  their  lighter 
moments.  Lily's  defiant,  inscrutable  eyes  mocked 
him.  But  Mrs.  Carstang  gave  him  sweet  friend 
ship,  and  he  sat  by  her  with  the  unchanging  loyalty 
of  a  devotee  to  an  altar  from  which  the  sacrament 
has  been  removed. 

Next  morning  Lily  did  not  come  to  the  lime-kiln. 
Maurice  worked  furiously  all  day,  and  corrected 
proof  in  his  room  at  night,  though  tableaux  were 
shown  in  the  casino,  both  Mrs.  Carstang  and  Lily 
being  head  and  front  of  the  undertaking. 

The  second  day  Lily  did  not  come  to  the  lime 
kiln.  But  he  saw  her  pass  along  the  grassy  avenue 
in  front  of  his  study  with  Mrs.  Carstang,  a  man  on 
each  side  of  them.  They  waved  their  hands  to 
him. 

216 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

Maurice  sat  with  his  head  on  his  desk  all  the 
afternoon,  beaten  and  broken-hearted.  He  told 
himself  he  was  a  poltroon ;  that  he  was  losing  his 
manhood ;  that  the  one  he  loved  despised  him,  and 
did  well  to  despise  him  ;  that  a  man  of  his  age  who 
gave  way  to  such  weakness  must  be  entering  se 
nility.  The  habit  of  rectitude  would  cover  him  like 
armor,  and  proclaim  him  still  of  a  chivalry  to  which 
he  felt  recreant.  But  it  came  upon  him  like  reve 
lation  that  many  a  man  had  died  of  what  doctors 
had  called  disease,  when  the  report  to  the  health- 
officer  should  have  read:  "  This  man  loved  a  wom 
an  with  a  great  passion,  and  she  slew  him." 

The  sigh  of  the  woods  around,  and  the  sunlight 
searching  for  him  through  his  door,  were  lonelier 
than  illimitable  space.  It  was  what  the  natives 
call  a  "  real  Mackinac  day,"  with  infinite  splendor 
of  sky  and  water. 

Maurice  heard  the  rustle  of  woman's  clothes,  and 
stood  up  as  Lily  came  through  the  white  waste  of 
stones.  She  stopped  and  gazed  at  him  with  large 
hunted  eyes,  and  submitted  to  his  taking  and  kiss 
ing  her  hands.  It  was  so  blessed  to  have  her  at  all 
that  half  his  trouble  fled  before  her.  They  sat 
down  together  on  the  bench. 

Much  of  his  life  Maurice  had  been  in  the  atti 
tude  of  judging  whether  other  people  pleased  him 
or  not.  Lily  reversed  this  habit  of  mind,  and  made 
him  humbly  solicitous  to  know  whether  he  pleased 
her  or  not.  He  silently  thanked  God  for  the  mere 
privilege  of  having  her  near  him.  Passionate  self- 

217 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

ishness  was  chastened  out  of  him.     One  can  say 
much  behind  the  lips  and  make  no  sound  at  all. 

"  If  I  drench  her  with  my  love  and  she  does  not 
know  it,"  thought  Maurice,  "it  cannot  annoy  her. 
Let  me  take  what  she  is  willing  to  give,  and  ask  no 
more." 

"  The  Carstangs  are  gone,"  said  Lily. 

"  Yes ;  I  bade  them  good-bye  this  morning  before 
I  came  to  the  lime-kiln." 

"  You  don't  say  you  regret  their  going." 

"  I  never  seek  Mrs.  Carstang." 

He  sat  holding  the  girl's  hands  and  never  swerv 
ing  a  glance  from  her  face,  which  was  weirdly  pallid 
—the  face  of  her  spirit.  He  felt  himself  enveloped 
and  possessed  by  her,  his  will  subject  to  her  will. 
He  said  within  himself,  voicelessly :  "  I  love  you. 
I  love  the  firm  chin,  the  wilful  lower  lip,  and  the 
Cupid's  bow  of  the  upper  lip.  I  love  the  oval  of 
your  cheeks,  the  curve  of  your  ears,  the  etched  eye 
brows,  and  all  the  little  curls  on  your  temples.  I 
love  the  proud  nose  and  most  beautiful  forehead. 
Every  blond  hair  on  that  dear  head  is  mine !  Its 
upward  tilt  on  the  long  throat  is  adorable !  Have 
you  any  gesture  or  personal  trait  which  does  not 
thrill  me  ?  Bat  best  of  all,  because  through  them 
you  yourself  look  at  me,  revealing  more  than  you 
think,  I  adore  your  blue  eyes." 

"  What  are  you  thinking  ?"  demanded  Lily. 

"  Of  a  man  who  lay  face  downward  far  out  in 
the  desert,  and  had  not  a  drop  of  water  to  moisten 
his  lips." 

218 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

"  Is  he  in  your  story  ?" 

"  Yes,  he  is  in  my  story." 

"  I  thought  perhaps  you  didn't  want  me  to  come 
here  any  more,"  she  said. 

"  You  didn't  think  so  !"  flashed  Maurice. 

"  But  you  turned  your  cheek  to  me  the  last  time 
I  was  here.  You  were  too  busy  to  do  more  than 
speak." 

Yoicelessly  he  said  :  "  I  lay  under  your  feet,  my 
life,  my  love  !  You  walked  on  me  and  never  knew 
it."  Aloud  he  answered :  "  Was  I  so  detestable  ? 
Forgive  me.  I  am  trying  to  learn  self-control." 

"  You  are  all  self-control !  If  you  have  feeling, 
you  manage  very  well  to  conceal  it." 

"  God  grant  it !"  he  said,  in  silence,  behind  his 
lips.  "  For  the  touch  of  your  hand  is  rapture.  My 
God !  how  hard  it  is  to  love  so  much  and  be  still !" 
Aloud  he  said,  "  Don't  you  know  the  great  mass  of 
human  beings  are  obliged  to  conceal  their  feelings 
because  they  have  not  the  gift  of  expression  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  answered  Lily,  defiantly. 

"But  that  can  never  be  said  of  you,"  Maurice 
went  on.  "  For  you  are  so  richly  endowed  with 
expression  that  your  problem  is  how  to  mask  it." 

"Are  you  coming  down  the  trail  with  me?  It 
is  sunset,  and  time  to  shut  the  study  for  the  day." 

He  prepared  at  once  to  leave  his  den,  and  they 
went  out  together  on  the  trail,  lingering  step  by 
step.  Though  it  was  the  heart  of  the  island  sum 
mer,  the  maples  still  had  tender  pink  leaves  at 
the  extremities  of  branches ;  and  the  trail  looked 

219 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

wild  and  fresh  as  if  that  hour  tunnelled  through 
the  wilderness.  Sunset  tried  to  penetrate  western 
stretches  with  level  shafts,  but  none  reached  the 
darkening  path  wher'e  twilight  already  purpled 
the  hollows. 

The  night  coolness  was  like  respite  after  burning 
pain.  Maurice  wondered  how  close  he  might  draw 
this  changeful  girl  to  him  without  again  losing  her. 
He  had  compared  her  to  a  wild  sweetbrier  -  rose. 
She  was  a  hundred-leaved  rose,  hiding  innumerable 
natures  in  her  depths. 

They  passed  the  dead  pines,  crossed  the  rotten 
log,  and  came  silently  within  sight  of  the  Indian  on 
the  trail,  but  neither  of  them  noted  it.  The  Indian 
stood  stencilled  against  a  background  of  primrose 
light,  his  bow  magnified. 

It  was  here  that  Maurice  felt  the  slight  elastic 
body  sag  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  am  tired,"  said  Lily.  "  I  have  been  working 
so  hard  to  amuse  your  friends  !" 

"  "Would  that  I  were  my  friends !"  responded 
Maurice.  He  said,  silently :  "  I  love  you  !  I  won 
der  if  I  shall  ever  learn  to  love  you  less  ?" 

The  unspoken  appeal  of  her  swaying  figure  put 
him  off  his  guard,  and  he  found  himself  holding 
her,  the  very  depths  of  his  passion  rushing  out  with 
the  force  of  lava. 

"  It  is  you  I  want !  —  the  you  that  is  not  any 
other  person  on  earth  or  in  the  universe !  What 
ever  it  is — the  identity — the  spirit — that  is  you — 
the  you  that  was  mated  with  me  in  other  lives — 

220 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

that  I  have  sought — will  seek — must  have,  what 
ever  the  price  in  time  and  anguish  ! — understand  ! 
—there  is  nobody  but  you !" 

Tears  oozed  from  under  her  closed  lids.  She  lay 
in  his  arms  passive,  as  in  a  half-swoon. 

"  You  do  the  talking,"  she  breathed.  "  I  do  the 
loving !" 

Without  opening  her  eyes  she  met  him  with  her 
perfect  mouth,  and  gave  herself  to  him  in  a  kiss. 
He  understood  a  spirit  so  passionately  reticent  that 
it  denied  to  itself  its  own  inward  motions.  The 
wilfulness  of  a  solitary  exalted  nature  melted  in 
that  kiss.  All  the  soft  curves  of  her  face  con 
cealed  and  belied  the  woman  who  opened  her  wild 
blue  eyes  and  looked  at  him,  passionately  adoring, 
fierce  for  her  own,  yet  doubtful  of  fate. 

"  If  I  let  you  know  that  I  loved  you  all  I  do,  you 
would  tire  of  me !" 

"  How  can  you  say  I  could  ever  tire  of  you  ?" 

"I  know  it !  When  you  are  not  quite  sure  of  me, 
you  love  me  best !" 

Maurice  laughed  against  her  lips.  "You  said 
that  was  the  Indian  on  the  trail — my  never  being 
quite  sure  of  you !  Will  you  take  an  oath  with  me  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  This  is  the  oath :  1  swear  before  God  that  I 
love  you  more  than  any  one  else  on  earth ;  more 
than  any  one  else  in  the  universe." 

She  repeated :  "  I  swear  before  God  that  I  love 
you  more  than  any  one  else  on  earth ;  more  than 
any  one  else  in  the  universe !" 

221 


THE    INDIAN    ON    THE    TRAIL 

Maurice  held  her  blond  head  against  his  breast, 
quivering  through  flesh  and  spirit.  That  was  the 
moment  of  life.  What  was  conquering  the  dense 
resistance  of  material  things,  or  coming  off  victor 
in  bouts  with  men  ?  The  moment  of  life  is  when 
the  infinite  sea  opens  before  the  lover. 

The  heart  of  the  island  held  them  like  the  heart 
of  Allah.  The  pines  sang  around  them. 

"  "We  must  go  on,"  spoke  Lily.  "  It  is  so  dark 
we  can't  see  the  Indian  on  the  trail." 

"There  isn't  any  Indian  on  the  trail  now," 
laughed  Maurice.  "  You  can  never  frighten  me 
with  him  again." 


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